


...The Heart Reveals Itself

by vulfen (SublimeDiscordance)



Series: Kindreds, Once Disparate, Now Aflame [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jisaac - Freeform, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, More angst than originally planned, Moving In Together, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Multiple, Polyamory, Post Season 2 AU, Scackson - Freeform, Schmoop, Scisaac - Freeform, Scisaackles, Scottles - Freeform, Self-Indulgent, Stackson - Freeform, The relationship tags are not an exaggeration, stisaac - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 56,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SublimeDiscordance/pseuds/vulfen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the eight years since high school, the world has changed. Old threats disguised as new threats loom on the horizon, the economy fluctuates, people lose their lives in senseless wars; the world continues spinning on its axis while slowly driving itself insane. </p><p>This is not that story. </p><p>This is the story of eight years—almost nine, as any of them will tell you—spent in the company of loved ones, trying to figure it all out. Together. Because, at the end of the day, that's what matters. </p><p>NOTE: This is a standalone from "When The Mind Wanders." They're set in the same universe, but it is not required to read WTMW before reading this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Epigraph:  
>  _“They’re gonna see us from outer space, lighting up like we’re the stars of the human race…”_  
>  —“Burn” by Ellie Goulding
> 
>  _“I’d never truly loved ‘til you put your arms around me… You put your arms around me and I’m home.”_  
>  —“Arms” by Christina Perri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god what I am doing with my life? This was supposed to be a short, fluffy oneshot but instead it transformed into… this… this MONSTER. Seriously, this was supposed to be done in like a week (HA! Five months later...). 
> 
> Before you get started: as is stated in the story summary, it is not necessary to read "When The Mind Wanders" before reading this. Admittedly, there will be a few context clues that get lost along the way in that case, but it shouldn't hamper your overall understanding of the story. All you really need to know is this: Jackson, Stiles, Scott, and Isaac had a spontaneous, unplanned foursome while staying the night at Jackson's house; also, Jackson and Stiles were already dating, as were Scott and Isaac. 
> 
> Moving on.
> 
> So, this is all [Nirvana’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirvana) fault. That [one little comment](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/4181145) got me thinking endlessly about my plans for a follow up and I seriously started writing out a rough outline of the story not twenty minutes later. Shit. So I guess my multichapter fic took a backseat for a few days/weeks/months/however-long-it-actually-took-me-to-finish-this-I-can’t-remember-anymore. Again. Oh well. Regardless, this was probably the most fun I’ve had writing in a while. Like, these scenes were so fucking fun to plan you have no idea. Also, I have decided rather arbitrarily that their anniversary is February 5th and that they all got together for the first time on September 14th. Why? Because Feb. 5th is my best friend’s birthday and because I wrote a random line and it just worked out that way.
> 
> You can thank my beta for the fact that you guys aren't going to be reading 45k words all at once, as she was the one to convince me that MAYBE chapters would be more manageable. The bulk of this story is already written, and is currently being beta'd. I'll update whenever another chapter gets out of beta (though, with my hectic schedule, that might be a while)
> 
> Quick warning: Time does jump around a bit in later chapters, but I’ll try to make it really obvious early on in each scene what the timeframe is. Also, there is one sequence of scenes that are strung together while the others are standalones, but—again—that should become obvious if I’ve written this properly. However, just to be sure, here’s a tip that will help with time shifts: I’ve ensured that what’s “present” and what’s “past” are easily distinguished ;) Also, as you'll see when I post later chapters, a larger-than-average chunk of this is in Isaac’s POV, but that’s because the first story was from Isaac’s POV, so he’s still the main narrator (in my mind, at least). 
> 
> Finally, this is the first time I've ever posted a multichapter fic on AO3, so please bear with me as I figure out what exactly I'm doing. 
> 
> Beta Credit: [antiquated_sorceress](http://archiveofourown.org/users/antiquated_sorceress/) (she's seriously amazing I'd be lost without her)

Eight years.

Isaac tries to wrap his head around the words while drumming a senseless beat against the steering wheel. Around him, streetlights zip past his car, illuminating his blank expression as well as the sidewalks that are mostly empty save for a few stragglers and hopeless drunks. After all, it’s only eight at night. On a Wednesday. In July. The college students won’t be back for another two months, so until then their little corner of the world is fairly quiet. The hum of the uneven pavement under his tires does nothing to distract him from his thoughts.

Eight _years_.

Isaac stops at a red light, brakes squealing and mind whirling. Eight years—nearly nine—since that fateful night in their senior year of high school. Eight years since the four of them took their first steps towards getting where they are today. Eight years that have felt like eight days but also eight decades.

He’s broken out of his musings when he hears his cup holder buzzing in an all-too-familiar pattern. Grabbing his vibrating phone from its place beside him, Isaac doesn’t even try to stop the toothy grin that splits his face as he hits the ‘Call’ button without checking the caller ID.

“You shouldn’t be driving and talking on the phone at the same time,” comes the gruff admonishment before he even has time to say anything.

“Yes, _mom_ ,” Isaac drawls, letting a bit of laughter leak into his words as his mate’s voice filters into his ear. “So why are you calling me, then, if you knew I’d be driving? And I’m at a red light anyway, so it’s fine.”

“Whatever,” Isaac hears a huff, “look, I’m running late in the lab again, and I won’t be out in time to pick up Scott when his shift ends. Can you swing by the hospital and get him for me?”

Isaac feels his smile slip a little. He hadn’t missed the way the voice on the other end of the line caught on the words ‘I won’t’; his mate is clearly upset. Isaac wants with everything he has to reach through the connection and cuddle with the other man. Letting his voice soften, he asks, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” a sigh, “yeah, it’s just this one fucking _stupid_ undergrad that we kept on for the summer because _fuck_ knows why and,” a pause, “just, a bunch of other shit and, yeah. Yeah. I’ll tell you all when I get home, I guess. So, can you get the puppy or not?”

Isaac snorts despite his sinking mood. “You know you’re going to get your ass beat if he ever finds out you still call him that, right? I still can’t believe you picked that up from Stiles.” When nothing but annoyed silence reaches his ears, Isaac heaves his own sigh and answers, “Yeah, it’s no problem. I can get him. But I expect you to tell us all about this later tonight, okay?”

“Right, sure, thanks,” the other voice mumbles, tone shifting back to something more clinical—his mate’s way of telling him that the conversation was over. Isaac can hear the sound of a pen scratching rapidly across a sheet of paper followed by computer keys clacking, and he lets out a breath.

“Oh, and Jackson?” Isaac calls out through the phone, relying on the other man’s lycanthropic hearing to ensure his words are heard.

“ _What_ , Isaac?” Jackson answers, annoyance clear in his voice. “I’ve got a metric shit-ton of work to do, and that’s without having to clean up other people’s messes, so _what_?”

Isaac feels his smile return full-force, used to Jackson’s moodiness by now.

“I’ll see you when you get home. I love you.”

There's a beat of silence before Isaac hears the other beta mumble “I love you too” before disconnecting, the words low enough that human ears would’ve missed them.

Isaac turns on his blinker and starts a U-turn, hands steady on the steering wheel as he straightens out the vehicle.

Eight years, he thinks. His smile is still firmly in place, stretching so wide his cheeks ache a bit, but he can’t bring himself to stop. Even after eight years, simple things like an unexpected phone call can still do this to him—make him feel giddy and seventeen all over again.

A lot can change in eight years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I know it's short, but I promise the remaining chapters will (mostly) be longer than this. Again, updates are probably not going to be all that regular, so I apologize for that in advance. 
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are more than welcome. As with my last story, I'll try to reply to anyone who does take the time to comment because you guys are my heroes.


	2. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning run, stern words, a long-overdue conversation, words of advice, and a ride home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Oh look, another chapter! This actually is a lot earlier than I'd imagined it would be, so you all can thank my lovely beta for this being out so soon. She sacrificed an evening to go over this with me; send her love and cookies! 
> 
> Beta Credit: [antiquated_sorceress](http://archiveofourown.org/users/antiquated_sorceress/)

The morning after their first time all together, everything seemed normal.

When someone had started wiggling beneath him, the motions had jostled Isaac towards wakefulness. Though the curly-haired teen’s vision was still clouded with sleep, he felt someone trying to gently unwrap his left arm from around their waist. And that just wouldn’t do. Wrapping his arm more securely around the bony hips, he let out a sleepy “mmm, noo…” and turned on his side to pull the other body flush with his chest. He burrowed into the heady, sweet smell that met him when he crooked his neck forward to nuzzle at the skin beneath him, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses to the expanse of warmth.

“Isaac,” a low voice croaked.

“Hmmm?” Isaac mumbled, tasting the steady heartbeat under him.

“Get off.”

Isaac muttered something even he himself wasn’t able to decipher and reluctantly disengaged his arm—though not before he scraped his teeth along the wet trail his mouth had left, inwardly delighted at the spike in the heart rate under his lips and the breathy gasp the action elicited. Opening his eyes a crack, Isaac was surprised to see that it was barely light out yet. The red numbers of the clock on the bedside table told him it was 5:45 in the morning until a pair of pale, perfectly sculpted hips blocked his view. Tracking upward, Isaac saw the hips connected to a pair of broad, confident shoulders that connected to a pair of hands, both of which were currently being used by their owner to rub at his eyes. The sight of Jackson’s hair, tousled by sleep and the night’s activities, made something in Isaac’s belly turn to mush. It was only when Jackson moved his hands away and looked down at Isaac with a heavy expression full of such _intent_ , the short-haired blond smirking “Like what you see, Lahey?” did Isaac realize that, not only was he staring, but Jackson’s half-hard cock was practically at eye-level for him.

Isaac’s face flamed red as embarrassment crawled into his throat, and he jerked his head back and up, drawing a soft, husky laugh out of Jackson.

“Jesus, Lahey, it’s not like you haven’t seen all this,” Jackson made a swooping gesture down his body, grinning cheekily, “before. Don’t be such a fucking prude.”

Jackson slid his legs off the bed from where he’d been kneeling by the edge, moving quickly over to the white dresser nearby and started rifling through the drawers, pulling out underwear, socks, a pair of shorts, and a t-shirt. It was unfair, Isaac thought to himself, how, even doing the most mundane things like picking which clothes to wear, Jackson looked like something straight out of a modeling shoot. The teen was all taut, purposeful muscles rippling under milky flesh in a way that would make anyone drool.

“I’m going for a run,” Jackson announced, looking back up to where Isaac was watching his every move as the shorter blond stepped into the pair of grey boxer briefs he’d picked out. “You can come with, if you want.”

It took Isaac a moment to stop staring at the way the briefs hugged Jackson’s package—a perfect combination of beguiling and revealing, hinting at the contents but not giving away _too_ much—stuttering for a moment before he managed to form actual, coherent words.

“I, uh, I don’t exactly have any running clothes,” Isaac managed to croak out, another thought occurring to him as he cleared his throat to continue, “and Scott shredded half our clothes last night anyway, so…” He let his voice trail off, not quite sure of what he’d intended to say as a follow-up. Jackson, however, just shrugged, the motion screaming nonchalance.

“You can borrow some of mine, if you want.”

Isaac couldn’t help the smirk that pulled at his lips, or the way the words—said so casually as if it was an everyday thing for them—made the mush that his guts had become freeze in his belly. He gently extricated himself from where Scott had a hand on his arm and Stiles’ leg was tangled with his own. The two of them grumbled lightly and wrapped themselves more tightly around each other when Isaac’s warmth disappeared. Isaac leaned back over the cuddling pair to give his boyfriend’s sleeping face a quick kiss accompanied by a whispered “Love you, babe” before moving to sit at the edge of the queen-sized bed, the mattress dipping around him as he faced Jackson again.

“Won’t they be a little small on me?”

Jackson’s face tightened for a second before he spluttered, “I’m not that much smaller than you, Lahey.”

“Hush,” Isaac chided, his smirk widening as he shifted his weight onto his feet and stood off the bed, “you’ll wake the boys.”

Isaac took a few confident steps towards the other blond, hands swinging loosely at his sides as the carpet under his feet tickled between his toes. However, the moment he was next to Jackson and had lifted a hand to cup the side of Jackson’s face, that confidence evaporated. What was he doing? He wasn’t dating Jackson. Jackson wasn’t dating him. Jackson had Stiles, and Isaac had Scott. One foursome—no matter how mind-blowing it may or may not have been—didn’t exactly erase that. Isaac dropped his hand, but Jackson grabbed it halfway and pulled it down to cover his heart.

“You’re thinking too much, Lahey,” the shorter blond—and he really was noticeably shorter, Isaac thought to himself, now that they were standing side-by-side on even footing—admonished him gently. “Feel my heartbeat and tell me whether or not I’m lying when I say that it’s fine, okay?”

Isaac felt the slow thrum of blood under his palm, the low pulsing, and did not feel it waver. He shook his head once, thought about it, then nodded instead. “You’re not lying, and it’s fine,” he clarified at Jackson’s bemused look.

“Good,” Jackson mumbled, making no move away from Isaac, but reaching over from where he stood to rummage around in the dresser and pick out another set of clothes, seemingly scrabbling towards the bottom of each drawer.

“They were always a bit big on me,” he told Isaac, holding them towards the other beta, “so they have a better chance of fitting you. I hope, anyway,” Jackson added, his own smirk canting the corners of his lips upward as he teased, “giant.”

Isaac dropped his hand off of Jackson’s chest to take the proffered articles, lifting an eyebrow as he retorted, “Thanks, shorty.” Jackson just lifted his own eyebrow, turning to put on the remainder of his outfit as Isaac did the same.

In the end, the shorts and underwear fit him just fine—even though the cut of the underwear was slightly more revealing that Isaac was used to, it was totally worth it to see Jackson stare unabashedly at him before Isaac slid the shorts up to his hips—but the shirt was a little too tight across the shoulders and not _quite_ long enough. Isaac didn’t say anything, though, and followed Jackson’s pace as they took off down the sleepy streets.  The other beta’s presence at his side—Jacksons’s mildly elevated heartbeat, and the way his breath puffed in front of him in the slightly-chilled air—felt almost like a familiar comfort. Isaac briefly entertained the idea that he could get used to morning runs.

And if Jackson’s eyes kept straying to the small strip of skin that was exposed around Isaac’s midriff every time the taller blond’s arms moved, and if Isaac secretly loved watching the blush creep up the other teen’s face as they ran side by side through the sunrise, and if Isaac was sure they were both acutely aware of the fact that he would smell like Jackson for the rest of the day, well.

That was just a bonus.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“So, let me see if I’ve got this all straight.”

None of them opened their mouths to answer the sheriff; even Stiles remained silent, and even Jackson knew that’d been a perfect opportunity for a joke. Huh. Stiles must be just as terrified—if not more so—as the rest of them, the blond thought to himself; it made sense: telling your parent you’ve been hiding a four-way relationship from them wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to do. Jackson would know.

“You,” the older Stilinkski pointed at Stiles, Scott, Isaac, and Jackson all in turn, “are in a relationship.”

Jackson nodded, the motion made jerky from the nervousness gripping his spine, and in his peripheral vision he saw his boyfriends doing the same beside him.

“All four of you.”

More nodding. Jackson felt fingers rubbing soothing circles into the back of his hand where his arm was resting at his side, and looked down to see that it was Scott—of fucking course it was, he thought to himself—sneaking his hand around Isaac’s waist. Jackson rotated his wrist until Scott’s fingers slotted between his own, squeezing lightly before turning his attention back to the sheriff. Jackson entertained the thought that the man was going to get a monobrow if he kept pushing his eyebrows together like that, and allowed himself a single internal chuckle at the joke—Stiles would’ve been proud.

“All at once.”

“Yes, dad!” Stiles exploded from the other end of the couch, exasperation clear in his voice. “It’s called a—”

“A polyamorous relationship, you’ve already told me,” the older man interrupted his son, leveling the younger brunet with a glare that, despite appearing outwardly stern and exasperated, still held an unmistakable spark of fondness in its depths.

“Forgive me for taking a moment to process this all, Stiles, it’s not every day your son tells you that he’s been seeing someone behind your back for five years. I mean, five _years_? Really?”

“If it helps,” piped up the woman sitting beside the sheriff, her long, chocolate curls bouncing and swaying as she switched between sharing the sheriff’s confused expression and sending rather pointed glares at Scott, “I had no idea about any of this, either.”

“Sorry, Melissa, but, no, that… that doesn’t really make me feel better. At all, really,” Stiles’ dad muttered, looking down and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Mom, I swear,” Scott started, voice too even—too measured—for it to be natural, “I swear I was going to—”

“But you _didn’t_ , Scott! I mean, what possessed you to think it would be okay to keep something this big from me?” Even from where he sat, Jackson could smell the _hurt_ as it rolled off of her; the scent reminded him of a sour ocean breeze. “This is your _life_ we’re talking about, here! I thought,” Scott’s mom faltered, lifting her hands to cover the top half of her face before continuing, “I thought you wanted me to be a _part_ of that life. I thought we were _done_ with secrets.”

“Mom, I,” Scott’s voice caught as he blinked away tears, and Jackson gave the brunet’s hand a reassuring squeeze, “I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t know how to tell you, okay? It’s not something that just comes up in casual conversations.”

“To be honest,” the words were spilling out of Jackson’s mouth before he even registered that he was the one speaking, “we thought you already knew since you were always asking about us still living together and everything.”

After a beat of silence, the two adults dropped their hands from their faces and leveled Jackson with identical expressions of incredulity. The blond felt the blood rush to his face as his heartbeat pounded in his ears, not quite expecting to have the full weight of their attention focused so intently on him.

“When we called you boys here about why you refused to get your own places, we thought it was more along the lines of ‘best friends forever’ or some reminiscent teenager crap like that,” Sheriff Stilinski finally uttered into the quiet, voice deathly calm, “not ‘we’re all dating each other.’ That’s a bit of a leap there, Jackson. Even you have to admit that.”

Jackson felt his flush intensify at the ‘even you’ and opened his mouth to retort, but Isaac’s hand landed on his knee, squeezing tightly as the curly-haired blond cut Jackson off.

“We were scared.”

When Melissa raised an eyebrow at him, the blond hastily added a mumbled, “Mom…”

“But see that’s the thing,” Melissa huffed out, her exasperation making itself clear in the way that she waved her arms emphatically—a trait, Jackson couldn’t help but note, that she shared with her son—and her tone of voice, “why would that stop you? We are your _parents_. We _love_ you! Why would something as dumb as how many people you’re dating make us stop?”

Jackson’s breath caught in his throat, and he heard his boyfriends each stop breathing in their own way—Isaac simply took in a soft breath and held it, Scott audibly gasped, and Stiles seemed to be gagging on air. None of them dared to speak, let alone breathe, for fear that it would shatter the moment. Through the deafening silence, Jackson was acutely aware of the way Scott’s hand was crushing his own, the way Isaac’s grip was about to shred his jeans, and the way Stiles’ heartbeat was rapidly approaching a speed that was probably unsafe. Eventually, though, it was Isaac who broke the silence

“So,” the blond beta whispered softly, “does that mean you’re not upset?”

“Of course I’m upset!” Melissa practically yelled, throwing her hands up in the air as a frown overtook her features. “My sons have been keeping the truth from me for five years and for some reason thought that they could do something bad enough that I wouldn’t love them anymore! I’m fucking pissed! And wipe those shocked looks off your faces, all of you. I might be old but I’m allowed to swear whenever the hell I want to, especially if I’m this goddamn pissed off! I love you all, but god damn!”

From behind her, the sheriff nodded, a grave look on his face.

“You boys know that, even though we might not understand all this, we still _love_ you, right? I mean, it’ll take some time to digest and I still want to talk about all this because I, for one, am feeling a little lost. But you have to know—and I’m sure I speak for Melissa and myself when I say this—that ultimately, we support you. Both of us.”

His mates’ relief flooded the room, warm and soft and overwhelming, and Jackson allowed it to soothe his own nerves. He knew that, no matter how tense he had been feeling, his mates had been infinitely more stressed out; after all, these were _their_ parents—in name if not in blood—not Jackson’s. So maybe he allowed himself to be swept away in the sensation of his mates’ almost-giddy happiness for a moment: so what? He was allowed.

“So, how, um,” and there was Stiles, never one to let a silence sit for too long—the normalcy of that may or may not have made Jackson’s mouth quirk up at the corner—“I mean, what could we do to, y’know, help you to… to understand?”

The two adults looked at each other before Melissa offered, “Well, I mean, it would probably help if you actually, ah, explained?” At the confused looks she received in return, she elaborated. “I can’t imagine loving more than one person the way you four say you do, so… how does that even work?”

Jackson felt something icy clamp down on his spine. He knew he’d never been accused of being good with words, and—as strange as it seemed—no one had actually asked this of the four of them before. Of course, the blond thought to himself, it probably had more to do with the fact that they’d only ever told a few people, and they—for one reason or another—hadn’t questioned the relationship the four of them shared. Jackson felt his neck crane until he was facing Stiles, and he noticed Isaac and Scott doing the same. After a moment under their combined gazes, Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Fine, I guess I’ll go first. Traitors.”

Turning his gaze back to the two adults, the brunet took a breath and ran a hand through his hair—he’d been growing it out again, Jackson noted—before speaking.

“So, uh, I guess the best way to put it is this: I love all of them. I really do. It’s just, I… I don’t love them the same way, y’know? That’s not to say that I don’t love them all as strongly as the others,” he added hastily, “because I totally do. It’s _how_ I love them that’s different.

“Like, Scott. I love Scott because, I mean, how can you _not_ love Scott, am I right? He’s adorable and sweet and super caring and he always worries about others before himself—though, dude, not gonna lie, that can be pretty fucking annoying at times because you forget to take care of your own goddamn self when you need to—”

“I have you guys for that,” Scott interjected, smiling lightly. Stiles just rolled his eyes again before continuing.

“Yes you do, Scott. Anyway. So yeah. Scott. He just tries so hard and he can’t stand to see anyone else unhappy and… and yeah. I love him for that. I love him for the way he’ll give us massages if we’ve had a long day, even if his day at the hospital was just as bad. Or how he’s always the first one to jump on a problem, even if he hasn’t really thought through how to fix it because he can’t stand it being broken. For the way he just… cares. Like, all the time. He’s like a puppy—a smoking hot, Scott-sized puppy—and I love him for it.”

At some point, Stiles’ gaze had shifted to Scott, and the two brunets were making the absolute gooiest eyes at each other in the history of anything, ever. Jackson resisted the urge to pretend to be gagging, though only barely, the corner of his mouth trying to pull itself towards his eyes instead.

“And Stiles is pretty amazing himself,” Scott supplied. “He’s the only human among us, but he’s okay with that—and so are we—because it gives him a completely unique perspective in our relationship. We’d be lost without him. He’s the one who can make any of us laugh or cry or whatever we need—it doesn’t matter what it is, he usually seems to know. He keeps us from falling too far into our wolves and from taking ourselves too seriously.” Stiles blushed at the compliments, especially when Isaac made an assenting sound and nodded his head vigorously, letting out a soft “And we love _you_ for that.”

Jackson allowed the smile on his face to blossom a little, tilting his head towards Stiles and offering the brunet a smirk.

“Anyway, then there’s Isaac,” Stiles continued, color high in his cheeks as his gaze shifting to the aforementioned blond. “Isaac who is the most kind-hearted and level-headed out of all of us. If we ever get into a fight—any of us, _ever_ —you can be damn sure that, if no one else, Isaac will be keeping his cool and, eventually, he’ll force us all to sit our asses down and chill out and talk about it like reasonable adults. And, like Scott, he can’t stand when one of us is upset. Except, unlike Scott, Isaac is probably the most creative—or at least extreme—in his ways of making things better. Like, I remember one time,” Stiles’ face split in a grin as his eyes drifted to somewhere far-off, “there was this one time when—god, it was probably our second year together?—Scott was having difficulty understanding his o-chem homework, and—”

“I’m sorry, son,” the sheriff interrupted, “I’m sure this isn’t all that important, but… o-chem?”

“Organic chemistry,” Isaac blurted out, drawing the eyes of everyone into the room onto him. He blushed before he explained further, “It’s probably the single hardest course any science student has to take as an undergrad. It’s completely different from anything that you’ve learned up until that point, but if you can just—”

“Like I said,” Stiles interrupted his boyfriend, giving the blond an apologetic look, “Scott was having difficulty with it and Isaac was in it with him. They were talking about, uh, some weird shape thingy—”

“Chirality,” Isaac interjected, his face still screwed up slightly at having been interrupted; an image of a confused puppy flitted through Jackson’s mind, and he had to suppress a giggle because _really_ : he did _not_ giggle.

“Yeah that. _Anyway_ , Scott wasn’t getting it. So Isaac… actually, Isaac, what exactly _did_ you do? All I remember was that the kitchen was a mess.”

“I made Scott a set of molecular models using food and straws.”

“Yeah,” Jackson grumbled, unable to remain silent any longer, “if by food you mean a bunch of grapes and apple slices that got fucking juice _everywhere_. _And_ they used whipped cream on the straws for double bonds and whipped cream with chocolate sauce for triple bonds— _neither of which_ , may I remind you both,are _at all_ relevant in chirality. Do you know how long it took me to clean up after you two?”

“But they were so tasty,” Scott sighed whistfully, his eyes going somewhere distant as a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Jackson had to squeeze the brunet’s hand for a moment to bring him back to reality, away from fruit-filled dreams.

“I don’t really care how good they tasted or how much you enjoyed eating them off Isaac’s body,” Jackson retorted, no real heat behind the words; he inwardly chuckled at how both Isaac and Scott’s faces turned adorable shades of red, “did neither of you dipshits stop and think about the fact that you were sticking straws into _fruit_? Or that whipped cream _melts_? I love you both, but oh my _god_. _Seriously_.”

As everyone’s gazes settled on him, Jackson could’ve sworn the room heated up several degrees. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, wishing he could fall into its plush depths and just hide. “What?” he finally asked, letting some of his defensiveness tinge his words. On the other side of the couch, Stiles snorted. Across the room, Melissa had dropped her head into her hands and was muttering a soft “I so did not need to hear that,” though Jackson could’ve sworn he saw a smile peeking from beneath her hands.

“Anyway, as I was saying, Isaac has always been the most creative when it comes to solving problems. He’s also, like, I dunno, I guess the unsung hero of our relationship? Like, if you need something, you ask Isaac and he’ll just do it. No questions asked.”

“You say that like I’m a mindless drone,” Isaac laughed.

“Well, no,” Stiles sputtered, “I mean, like, you’re just so damn _accommodating_. Like with the fruit chemistry or whatever: you’ll do whatever you think is necessary to get things done and solved. And it’s that coupled with the fact that you’re just… God, I sound like a sap saying this, but you’re just so fucking _nice_ and _sensitive_ , Isaac, that I can’t help but love you.”

“Jesus christ, Stilinski,” Jackson muttered, feeling something warm well up in his chest but ignoring it because _really_? “Move on or I’ll vomit all over all three of you.”

Stiles stuck his tongue out at the blond before finally saying, “You just want me to talk about you, Mr. working-on-my-doctorate jerk.”

Jackson just smirked. However, when Stiles opened his mouth to speak, he was cut off by Isaac, the curly-haired blond looking at the two parents across from him with an intensity that even Jackson could feel.

“Jackson needs us the most out of any of us.”

Jackson felt a spark of anger blossom in his chest despite the way the taller blond had given his knee an affectionate squeeze at the words, and he had turned to speak when Isaac continued, overriding the words Jackson had been ready to fling into the silence.

“Out of the four of us, he’s always had the hardest time trusting others. He doesn’t want to let anyone in. Honestly, I’m somewhat surprised he allowed Stiles to date him in the first place.”

“Right, because that was easy,” Stiles interjected, sending an affectionate look Jackson’s way.

“But the point,” Isaac said forcefully, speaking over Stiles’ interruption, “is that we give Jackson someone to trust and someone to believe in who isn’t himself. We gave him something to stand on. And he rewarded us with his own brand of fierce devotion.”

Jackson felt his face heat as, between Isaac and Stiles, Scott nodded and picked up where Isaac had left off.

“It’s true. One time Isaac got hurt by some guys who saw us all out together, and the second he saw what had happened, Jackson just went berserk nearly beat one of them to death on the pavement. We were actually worried for a second that he’d _literally_ kill the guy.”

”And, like Isaac said,” Stiles continued, “that devotion is what I love about Jackson—I think what we all do. That and the way he isn’t afraid to let himself go around us, to just be _himself_. But that’s why he needs us, too, because, before there was an _us_ , well…”

“I didn’t know who I was,” Jackson let the words slip from his mouth, so softly that he wasn’t sure the others had heard him but unwilling to say them again. He looked away, eyes focused on a spot just to the left of a painting Melissa had hung up some time in the last few years. The fingers of his free hand—the one not being crushed by a certain brown-eyed werewolf—twiddling with a loose thread on his pants. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and he spared a thought wondering how the hell his mates managed to get him like this—so pitifully _open_ —with a few simple words

“I tried to define myself based on what others thought of me, or how good I was compared to them, and I can see that _now_ , but,” his gaze travelled over his boyfriends, lingering on each of them for a moment as they nodded solemnly, “they taught me that it’s okay to have things I like because I like them and no other reason. And I…”

The words were caught at the back of Jackson’s throat, almost out but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say them in front of the two adults who were—despite their close relationship to each of his boyfriends—mostly strangers to him.

“It’s okay, Jackson,” Isaac murmured, hand now running up and down Jackson’s thigh, “you don’t have to say it. We know.”

“No, I—I do,” Jackson’s vision was suddenly blurry and he shut his eyes, trying to prevent more moisture from gathering at their corners; he knew that if there was ever a moment that these three words _needed_ to be said, it was now. “I...” He took a deep breath, brow scrunching, mouth open slightly. “I—l…” The words were _right there_. He swallowed, attempting to rid himself of the tightness that had suddenly enveloped his throat, and tried for a third and final time. “I _love_ you guys, all of you, because—because of what you’ve given me. Because you don’t ask for anything from me. Because you all accept me despite the fact that I’m nowhere near as perfect as the three of you no matter how hard I try and I just… I don’t know what I did to get this lucky but I… I just hope you all never realize how much better off without me you are because I don’t know what I’d—”

“Hush, love,” Jackson heard Isaac’s voice whisper the words in a rush of warm air against his lips before a chaste kiss was cutting off the shorter blond’s tirade. Jackson could feel fingers stroking the tears from his face, tracing the wet tracks they’d left behind and erasing them as if they’d never been there. He opened his eyes, and more tears immediately sprang into being at the bottom of his vision as a pair of strong arms wrapped around him from behind, the scent wafting off of them instantly recognizable. Stiles had somehow managed to move around the couch without making any noise, leaning over the side and wrapping himself around Jackson in a silent show of support. The fingers on his face kept up their own soothing motion, and as Isaac leaned back, Jackson could see that they belonged to Scott and Isaac both, Scott using his free hand as Isaac attended to the other side of the shorter blond’s face.

“We’re not going anywhere, Jacks,” Scott soothed before he turned to his mom and the sheriff, whispering, “This is what we meant, about needing us.” The brown-eyed beta turned his attention back to Jackson, leaning into Isaac’s back as if he could hug Jackson through the other blond. Jackson sniffled indignantly, trying to get his tears back under control because, _no_ , he did _not_ cry in front of people, never mind that these ‘people’ were his mates’ parents.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jackson was aware of the two adults shuffling uncertainly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them share a look before both rising to their feet at some unseen signal, softly padding to the doorway into the kitchen. The sheriff walked through to the adjoining room, but Melissa paused, turning to face them. When she spoke, there was a smile evident in her voice.

“We’re happy for you boys, we really are,” she said into the silence, her words taking on the barest hint of a warning as her eyes hardened fractionally, “but no more secrets, okay? You can talk to us about anything, and I do mean _anything_. Please just… don’t forget that this time, alright?”

“Yes, mom,” chimed Scott and Isaac as she left the room, while Stiles let out a, “Yes, Mrs. McCall.”

Allowing himself to relax, Jackson felt his face arrange itself into a wet smile, and he closed his eyes again, letting his tears dry as the comfort of his mates surrounded him.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Isaac stretched himself out on the couch, textbook propped on his stomach as he scanned over another paragraph about inheritance. There was a vague sort of scratchy feeling building up in his chest that Isaac had come to associate with boredom, and he looked down to briefly palm at his sternum to soothe it away. Looking back up and blinking, he realized that he had absolutely no idea where in this paragraph he’d left off, so he sighed and started it over again. Before he even got halfway through this time, the feeling was back, and Isaac _glared_ at his chest with a light growl, claws extending against his will.

Though boredom was a feeling with which Isaac’d had plenty of time to become acquainted, it was something he’d never been able to cope with too well. It reminded him too much of being stuck in that freezer again, nothing to do but feel the walls shrink ever closer as he screamed and screamed and _screamed_ trying to claw his way out fingers bleeding nothing to do but scream and plead and _beg_ for—

“I?”

Isaac started, closing his eyes and shaking his head in a dog-like motion to banish the memories. He gulped down several deep breaths—like Stiles and Scott had taught him—trying to force himself to calm down. When he’d finally gotten his heart rate back to something approaching normal and felt his claws sink back into his fingertips, he opened his eyes and scanned the living room for the source of the voice. It wasn’t that he didn’t know whose voice it had been—he’d recognize Stiles’ voice amidst a thousand others—but more that he hadn’t even been aware of the human being anywhere near him.

Presently, Stiles was sitting on the end of the couch, one hand on Isaac’s ankle, worry evident in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, just squeezed lightly at the joint before letting go. As soon as he did, Isaac felt an acute sense of loss, and he had to bite his lip to keep from whimpering at the cold impression the touch left in its absence.

“Better?” the brunet asked. Isaac nodded and pulling his leg up under him. He sat up and put his genetics book aside, then, without really thinking about it, started thumbing at the fading warmth Stiles’ palm had left on his skin.

“We don’t really get to hang out all that much, do we?” Stiles asked after several moments of fidgeting-filled silence during which the brunet had slowly shifted closer to Isaac’s end of the couch. Isaac simply shrugged, and caught a frown on Stiles’ face when he chanced looking up, gaze shifting back to the floor almost instantly as the tension and awkwardness in the room mounted. When he chanced another look, a flicker of surprise washed over the brunet’s face followed rapidly by realization and steely determination.

“Isaac.”

It wasn’t a question. Isaac nodded to show he was listening, fingers joining his thumb to chase after the faded warmth in his foot..

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, okay? I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Relief coursed through Isaac, flowing down his shoulders and down his spine, relaxing tension in its wake.

“Thank you,” he breathed, clearing his throat to dislodge whatever seemed to be turning his voice into a hoarse whisper, “I, um, I don’t really like sitting still for too long unless I have something I can really focus on, y’know? And genetics…” Isaac let his voice trail off, knowing Stiles would understand. Indeed, the brunet was nodding sagely at him.

“Yeah, I understand, man. I don’t think genetics is that cool, either, to be honest.”

Isaac paused for a moment, feeling a pulse of… _something_ travel through him. The closest he could come was fondness, but this was much more potent: making his face flush and a playfulness rise in his belly.

“You don’t even like biology, Stiles,” Isaac let himself laugh lightly, “so why would you like genetics?”

“Exactly,” the brunet smirked before closing the distance between them, scooting across the remaining foot between them to knock their knees together playfully. Stiles lifted a hand and placed it casually on Isaac’s shoulder, head dipping a little to look the beta straight in the eye.

“And see? I got you to smile, didn’t I?”

Isaac couldn’t help it, the small grin that had been leaking onto his face stretched itself into a full-fledged smile. He nodded, his face and neck and the tips of his ears heating, certain he must’ve been bright scarlet.

“Yeah. Thanks, Stiles.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezed lightly.

“No problem, I,” Stiles grinned, face moving towards the TV across from the couch. His gaze eventually settled on the game systems scattered beneath the flatscreen, expression turning two parts playful and one part mischievous.

“Wanna play a game, then? Get your mind off of the evils of DNA and stuff?”

Isaac shrugged in response.

“Sure, but no Mario Kart. You and Scott are way too competitive with that one.”

Stiles huffed, but eventually slid off the couch and fired up the Wii, setting everything up until Isaac found himself playing Prince Fluff (“No fair. Why do I have to be the pink one?” “Because you insisted on being player one, Stiles.”) in Kirby’s Epic Yarn. Stiles’ thigh was firmly pressed against his own as they bashed, clawed, and swung their way through string creatures while collecting a myriad of multicolored beads.

“Wanna go out sometime?”

The question caught Isaac off guard. He nearly dropped his controller in surprise, falling to his death and costing them a large chunk of the beads they’d collected so far as he swung to face Stiles.

“W-what?”

“Y’know,” the brunet continued, still facing the TV, “like, a date. Keep up or we’re not gonna get any beads from this level, I.”

Isaac could only gape.

“A date?”

“Yes a date. We’re allowed to have those, remember?” Stiles paused the game, turning to face Isaac as well. “And I seem to recall that we’re the only ones that haven’t had one so far. I think we should fix that. Plus,” he trailed off, face pinking as his gaze travelled to somewhere in the vicinity of Isaac’s left shoulder, “I, uh, really want to?”

Isaac considered the words for a moment, something warm and soft filling his stomach the more he thought about them. After a moment, he nodded.

“Yeah, you’re right. We should fix that.”

Stiles’ smile nearly blinded him.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“We’re _what_?”

Stiles’ ears rang as silence settled over Derek’s apartment, his words rebounding from the brick and metal walls. He fought the urge to shiver—seriously, it was _late_ _January_ , hadn’t the alpha heard of central heating?—as the cold of the large room tried to eat his fingers and seep into his bones, his breath fogging in front of him. However, compared to the tempest currently churning in Stiles’ gut ( _confusion, desire, disbelief, hope, annoyance, swirled into a perfect shit-storm_ ) the blizzard that was raging against the windows and howling in through any cracks it could find—the worst Beacon Hills had experienced in decades, they were saying, which, really, was unsurprising given that it was _California_ —was a gentle breeze.

Derek rubbed at the bridge of his nose, but the motion only served to fan the flames that churned in Stiles’ belly.

“ _Mates_ , Stiles. If you ask me something, you could at least listen. Like I said, you, Jackson—”

“That’s impossible,” Stiles interrupted the alpha, ignoring the red-eyed glare sent his way through splayed fingers, “humans can’t be mates with werewolves. You told me that the last time I asked. You said that I had to be prepared for the eventuality that Jackson found a werewolf mate. So, either you’re wrong, or—”

“I’m not wrong,” Derek growled before his eyes shifted back to their normal hue, his gaze tracking away from Stiles’ face as his hand dropped to his side, “you _are_ their mate. They are _your_ mates. The four of you are _each other’s_ mates. You all smell like it. Like each other and… something else. I’m serious, the only word that can describe it is ‘mates’,” he clarified when Stiles raised a questioning eyebrow.

The human chewed on his bottom lip, thoughts racing, before speaking.

“That still doesn’t explain how I can be mated to a werewolf, let alone _three_ werewolves. Actually, hold on a minute, how—”

“How do they have more than one mate?” Derek asked, finishing the human’s sentence. “I honestly have no idea. I’ve never heard of a werewolf having more than one mate, or of a human being in the mix. It’s, well, like you said, it’s supposed to be impossible. Especially considering you need to _accept_ your mate for the bond to finalize, and Scott and Isaac had already accepted each other, so...” The alpha trailed off, hand coming back up, but this time to rub at the back of his neck, still pointedly avoiding looking at Stiles’ face.

“Honestly, I just… I have no idea.”

Suddenly, the storm in Stiles’ mind vanished, replaced by a sinking sensation that pulled at his entire body and forced the air from his lungs.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, eyes no longer seeing the freezing loft, but things far, far away: how Jackson had asked during the summer if he was comfortable with the idea of the four of them fooling around, given how comfortable they all were with each other already. How Jackson had tried to play the whole thing off as a joke at the time, but there was something open and _vulnerable_ in his gaze when he’d made the suggestion that Stiles hadn’t missed, and that—more than anything—had been what had planted the seed in his mind.

How Scott and Isaac had looked sprawled together on the floor.

How Isaac’s entire body had flushed and _writhed_ as Scott had denied him his release.

How that sight had _burned away_ any doubts in Stiles’ mind.

How, when he’d invited the two of them into bed with him and Jackson, both their eyes had glowed so intensely for a moment despite how blown their pupils were with lust that Stiles could’ve practically counted their eyelashes.

How Jackson had leveled him with a looked filled with such _gratitude_ and such _promise_ that something in Stiles’ chest had solidified into a molten weight.

How Jackson’s eyes had flared just like Isaac and Scott’s eyes had seconds before.

How, in that moment, Stiles had _accepted the three of them_.

How the four of them had proceeded to _have sex_ , the singular act that confirmed a werewolf’s mate once they’d been identified, acknowledged, and accepted.

“But, it’s not,” Stiles managed to get out, voice trailing off. Nothing made sense. Everything was spinning. He flung an arm out to grab hold of something—anything—as the world tilted, but instead found himself being held upright by Derek’s strong grip on his shoulders. The alpha kneeled down until Stiles was forced to look the older man in the eye. The expression Stiles found there was stern, but also caring and sympathetic; after all, despite their differences, they were Pack.

“No, Stiles, like we’ve both been saying, it shouldn’t be possible, it’s never happened before, and so on. But I am _telling_ you, _somehow_ , you are their mate, they are your mates; you are all each other’s mates.”

In that moment, with Derek’s uncharacteristically earnest eyes searing holes through his soul, a single through surfaced in Stiles’ mind.

“I have mates,” he mumbled, eyes wide and voice coming out in stuttering gasps as he shivered lightly. Derek just nodded at him.

“I have mates,” Stiles repeated, a bit louder this time.

“Yes, Stiles, you have—”

“I have _mates_!  Oh my god are you kidding me?” Stiles jumped out of Derek’s grasp, bringing his hands up to his hair and tugging to make sure this wasn’t a dream. Something warm and solid was filling him up, driving away the cold that was still pressing at him from all sides.

“I have _mates_? I don’t—how do I—I can’t—what do I even _do_? How do I feel about this? Do they even _know_?”

“What you do,” Derek said, tone that of one speaking to a slow child, “is stop trying to reason this out. What you _do_ ,” the alpha continued, eyes flashing red when Stiles opened his mouth to speak, “is accept the fact that, somehow, you and three werewolves are mated together. Just like the Bite is a gift, so are mates. Mates, however go beyond—”

“Transcend being a ‘gift’ and are the only thing a werewolf will ever need to be happy once they find them, yeah, I got the speech last time, Derek,” Stiles snarked at the older man—unable to resist—a smile curling the corner of his mouth against his will when the alpha growled at him.

There was something—something light and fluttery and _warm_ —jumping around his stomach as he took a moment to think about the words that’d just come out of his own mouth: about what it _meant_ to be a mate to a werewolf.

And maybe they weren’t all on the best of terms right now—the awkwardness of their night together still lingering, almost five months after it’d happened. And maybe Stiles still wasn’t entirely sure about how he felt about all this. But, at the end of it all…

The fluttering warmth filled him, spreading into his limbs to chase away any lingering cold the solid _heat_ in his chest hadn’t managed to quell.

For the first time in months, Stiles realized, he was _happy_.

Now all he had to do was somehow convince the others that the impossible had come to pass—that the four of them were mates and were, by some _absolutely-impossible-but-apparently-that-doesn’t-matter_ twist of fate, meant to be together. Yeah, he thought, it sounded so simple. Right. But, in the end, it didn’t matter.

He just knew, somehow, one way or another, that he was going to get his friends back—and then some, it seemed.

Yeah, that sounded like a pretty good deal.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Scott checks his phone again. 8:24. A spike of worry worms its way into his gut. Neither the picture superimposed on his phone’s lock screen—the four of them all crowded on the couch, Stiles and Isaac giving Scott a kiss on each cheek while Scott’s arms clutched a disgruntled-looking Jackson to his chest—nor the good news practically dying to jump from his lips can completely quell the feeling that something is _wrong_. Jackson has never been this late before, at least not without calling or at the very least sending a text to let Scott know about it in advance.

“Is your boyfriend running late?” asks a kind voice behind him, and, recognizing the gravelly-but-motherly tone, he turns to smile at Kim. She’s one of the other nurses at the hospital, and probably one of the few that are still working the E.R. from Scott’s clinical days almost six years ago. All the others have moved elsewhere in the hospital or have quit. As it stands, Kim is probably the closest thing Scott has to a friend at work, even if she still doesn’t quite understand that, yes, Jackson is his boyfriend, but the blond’s not his _only_ boyfriend.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s fine, though,” he tries to sound more confident than he feels, and he’s grateful that the portly, blonde woman isn’t a werewolf, or else she would hear the way his heart skipped a beat at his own words. As it is, though, her sky-blue eyes—eyes that have always reminded Scott of Isaac, and maybe, he muses for a moment, that’s why he’s been at all willing to get to know her—light up, any traces of worry gone.

“Well, you know that if you need a ride or anything you can just ask me, right hun? Although,” she leans in towards Scott, the thumb of the hand that clutches at his sleeve covering the head of one of the cartoon dogs that crisscross his scrubs, while the other hand lifts to her mouth as she stage-whispers conspiratorially, “I completely understand not wanting to miss a chance to ride in that Porsche with such a beautiful man. Mm-mm! If I were twenty years younger…”

Scott laughs with her, pushing down the side of his wolf that wants to rear its head and let this woman know that his mates are _his_ and _his alone_.

It’s when Kim’s crossed the road and has turned back to wave at him from the other side of the Kiss’n’Ride that a familiar dusty-green Toyota Carolla pulls into the parking lot across the road from where Scott’s standing, color vivid even in the fading light. He lets out a breathless laugh—this one unrestrained—and dashes across the pavement strip separating him and his mate. Kim looks from the car to Scott’s smile with a confused look, asking quietly, “Who’s that?” when Scott passes by her.

“My boyfriend,” Scott offers, smile still stretching his face. He ignores the bewildered sound she makes, striding past her with a quick, “Say hi to your son for me!” tossed over his shoulder. As he’s moving towards the idling car, the driver’s-side door pops open on protesting hinges and Isaac unfolds himself from the car’s interior. Scott practically _skips_ around the vehicle and wraps his arms around the taller man’s neck, tangling his fingers in the familiar blond curls before pulling his boyfriend down into a mostly-chaste kiss—okay, there might’ve been the _tiniest_ bit of tongue in there, but who can honestly blame him?—with a whispered “Well, this is a surprise.”

Isaac smiles into the kiss, pulling away to say, “Jackson’s having a late night and a bad day all wrapped into one, so he asked me to come get you. Sorry I’m late,” before he captures Scott’s lips again—and, okay, there’s _definitely_ some tongue in there, and it’s just _unfair_ how good Isaac is at doing that. Scott hums as a shiver of pleasure runs down his spine, Isaac’s arms slipping around his waist. After a moment, though, Scott pulls away and pretends to be deep in thought.

“Hmm, well, tell the vet clinic to update their scrubs to something this awesome,” he gestures at the cats and dogs that playfully prance up and down his scrubs top, “and I might consider forgiving you for showing up wearing something so… boring.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Jackson,” Isaac retorts easily, his smile stretching until Scott can see the blond’s molars if he angles his head just right. “Besides, the blue is classic yet so fashion-forward. And how can anyone even take you seriously wearing those? Especially in the emergency room.”

Scott snorts, feeling a warmth spread through his body as the scents of Isaac and _home_ wrap around him like a down comforter. He has to resist the urge to just sink into Isaac’s embrace, opting instead to settle his forehead into the crook of the blond’s neck and breathing in deeply before pulling back.

“Speaking of Jackson, I have news for him.”

When Isaac raises an eyebrow, Scott elaborates, the fingers still wrapped in the blond’s hair massaging the expanse of scalp within their reach. “Well, for all of you, really, but it’ll mean the most to Jackson. I’ll tell you when we get home, though, so don’t worry your beautiful, curly head over it.”

He feels Isaac smile into his hair, placing one last kiss on top of his head before the blond is disentangling himself from Scott’s embrace. Isaac backs around the driver’s door, pausing with his hand propped on top of the car so say, “Complimenting me isn’t going to make me forget, Scott,” before he leans down and arranges himself inside the vehicle.

“BYE, KIM!” Scott yells over his shoulder to the older nurse, his smile still firmly in place. She still hasn’t moved from the spot she was standing when Scott ran past her, but she waves back at him, a grin—genuine but confused—crossing her features as she shouts back a farewell. Turning back to the car, Scott pulls the squeaking door open— _Jackson should probably have a look at that_ , he thinks to himself—and gets himself situated, having to try three times before the seatbelt buckle finally catches. Like the ever-considerate driver he is, Isaac doesn’t take the car out of park until he’s made sure that Scott’s safely buckled in, is the temperature okay, do you maybe want it a little warmer? Scott just laughs and says yes, he’s fine, it was just a _really_ long day.

Placing his bag between his feet, Scott lets himself finally relax into the felt seat beneath him, smile dropping as his eyes slip shut. His left hand gropes blindly until he feels a warm palm press against his own, maneuvering them so that they’re both resting on the armrest. He can feel Isaac’s heartbeat thump-thumping where their hands meet.

“Love you ‘Saac. Thanks.”

“Anytime, pup. Love you, too.”

He feels a small thrill of affection course through him at the nickname, and his head lolls against the headrest. He thinks maybe he mumbles something in reply, but he can’t be sure.

He’s asleep in seconds.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and constructive criticism are more than welcome and those of you who do comment are my heroes! (you might even get pie!) ^_^ 
> 
> Anyway, thus begins the regular style this story is going to take. If you're having trouble with the time jumps or don't understand something, feel free to let me know! Also, I should point out that there are some events referenced in this chapter that will be fully explained later. Again, this was initially intended to be a oneshot, so everything would've been made clear all at once. This is the only disadvantage to making this multichaptered that I can find, so please bear with me. If you ask about one of those things, I'll let you know. 
> 
> Let me know what you like and don't like and if you'd maybe like to see something specific; I'll see if I can maybe work it into the chapters that are still to come.
> 
> Unfortunately, I can make no promises about when the next chapter will be up, but hopefully it will be by the end of next week because then finals will be over.


	3. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emergency, the fallout, study troubles, receiving news, and making plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, this is about a week later than I'd hoped to have it up but... what can you do, eh?
> 
> Beta Credit: [antiquated_sorceress](http://archiveofourown.org/users/antiquated_sorceress/) (She's awesome. Give her love.)

Stiles clutched at the phone in his hand like a lifeline. He was overcome with a horrifying sense of claustrophobia—like he was standing in a collapsing house, the walls and ceiling rushing to smother him, pressing into his skin until he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t _breathe_.

The four of them had finally moved all their assorted furniture and boxes into the two-bedroom they’d found together. After clearing a space in the room they’d picked when they visited a few weeks ago, they’d eventually managed to assemble the queen-sized bed frame, placed the mattress  on top, thrown some sheets on it, and proceeded to christen their new apartment in what had been—in Stiles’ oh-so-humble opinion—the single hottest bout of sex they’d had to date. Seriously: when had Scott learned to _bend_ that way? Even though there were still _mountains_ of boxes to be unpacked and they had a matching mountain of furniture to assemble and classes started in a week, Stiles had let himself bask in the warmth of the teens around him. Freshman year at an unfamiliar school didn’t have shit on him, he’d let himself think with an amused chuckle. He felt a hand carding dexterous fingers through his hair, twirling it around and gently tugging at it.

“Whatcha laughing about, babe?” came Scott’s sleepy voice, and the fingers made a brief scratching-behind-the-ears motion before they resumed their wandering. Stiles craned his neck and kissed the palm of the hand above him before looking into the brown eyes to his left, still giggling.

“Nothing, Scott, just imagining your sexy little werewolf butts kicking freshman year’s ass.”

“Is that even a thing?” Isaac’s voice had been somewhere above him, out of sight. “Freshman year, I mean. Does it actually look like something?”

“You know it, Lahey,” Stiles had retorted easily, arm swinging up to try and find the aforementioned blond, “like the lovechild between Finstock and Harris, but more cuddly. And it has your sense of humor, too.”

Isaac had apparently managed to latch onto Stiles arm, because the next thing Stiles knew he was being hauled further up the bed until his head was underneath Isaac’s downturned face, upside-down. The blond’s smirk was punctuated by the teeth he was baring, playful glint in the back of his eyes.

“Really? Well then I’m sure everyone likes its jokes except you, _Stilinski_. Maybe instead of killing it we’ll bring it back here and lock you both in a room, see if you can’t learn a thing or two. Sure, it might be repulsive, but at least it’ll be good company while it’s around. And, if the end result is you actually telling good jokes, well…” his voice had trailed off, his smirk becoming decidedly lupine.

Stiles had gasped in mock offense to cover up his laugh, free hand—Isaac was still latched onto the one he’d reached up with earlier—coming up to cover his mouth.

“You wound me, Sir Lahey, to suggest that my humor is anything less than impeccable.”

“Well then,” Isaac had murmured, a faint flame burning in his eyes as they glowed a faint amber, “I suppose I’ll just have to kiss you and make it better then, won’t I?”

“Ooh, Spiderman kiss,” Stiles had joked lamely as Isaac’s face had descended towards his own, their lips connecting in a chaste kiss, warm skin brushing against warm skin. He leaned up into Isaac’s lips and let them slide against his own, moaning softly when Isaac’s tongue darted out to briefly taste Stiles’ mouth. Yeah, that definitely wasn’t playing fair.

The moment probably would’ve stretched a little longer, with Isaac and Scott and—eventually—Jackson all curling around their human and joining in, if not for the fact that Jackson abruptly sprang out of bed with sudden, sharp motions, his face pinched. The blond ran so fast that Stiles couldn’t track the motion, stumbling into the bathroom and crawling over to the toilet before he vomited loudly.

And that was how, minutes later, Stiles found himself on the phone, plastic gripped so tightly in his hand that he was afraid he might break the fragile piece of technology. Derek’s number glowed on the screen as he hit ‘call’ for the fourth time, shoving the his cell phone back to his ear and muttering to himself about useless alphas.

After the third ring, someone picked up.

“Thank fuck, Derek,” Stiles felt relief wash over him, the words coming out in a rush, “we need your help, there’s something wrong with Jackson and—”

“Woah, woah, woah, hold the phone, Stiles,” came a voice that was _definitely_ not Derek, “though I’d imagine that you’re probably doing a pretty good job of that on your own without my help. Unless, of course, you’re not, in which case this whole conversation I’m having with this air is pointless isn’t it?”

It was the sarcasm that gave it away. Stiles’ mood darkened considerably.

“Peter, you ass, where’s Derek?” he snarled into the phone, drawing Scott’s attention from where the brunet was kneeling beside Jackson. Isaac had his hand on Jackson’s forehead as the shorter blond moaned pitifully, heaving noisily into the toilet again. Black lines were crawling up Isaac’s arm and his face held a far-off look, and Stiles realized that he was trying to take away some of Jackson’s discomfort; so far, it didn’t seem to be working.

“Ooh, such harsh words, Stiles. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t like me.”

“God damn it, Peter,” Stiles all but shouted, conscious of his boyfriends’ enhanced hearing. “Jackson is sick and I need to talk to someone who actually knows something about werewolves, so just shut up and find Derek and give him the phone. _Now_. I have exactly zero patience for your bullshit shitty attitude right now.”

There was silence for a few moments before Stiles heard Peter chuckle.

“Is that him vomiting I hear?”

“…Yes, Peter, that’s him, now, _please_ , go find Derek, alright? We don’t know what to do so just… _please_ ,” Stiles couldn’t help the pleading tone that crept into his voice; he was telling the truth: except for Scott and Isaac both trying to take away Jackson’s pain in turns—which was barely doing anything to help, and the two of them were both starting to get red welts that snaked up their limbs where the black had repeatedly traced through their veins—they had absolutely no idea why this was happening or what to do about it.

“And,” Peter cleared his throat, ignoring the request, “just to make sure, you four probably just finished having wild monkey-sex after moving into your new apartment, correct?”

Stiles felt his face flush. “So what if we did? How does that—”

“Well then. It’s simple, and you’re almost adorably oblivious. He’s pregnant.”

Stiles had to be hearing things. He had to be. There was absolutely no way—

“Yes, you heard me correctly,” came Peter’s voice, unbidden, “he’s pregnant.”

“What?” Stiles shrieked. Jackson moaned and held his head in his hands, forehead laying on the porcelain bowl’s rim. Isaac, who was watching over Scott as the brunet kept trying to take Jackson’s pain, sent a half-hearted glare Stiles’ way. The message was clear: ‘ _Keep it down._ Please. _’_ Stiles tried to keep his voice level as he turned away from the three teens and practically growled into the phone.

“Peter, Jesus Christ that’s—you can’t—it’s not—there’s just—I mean… ugh!” As much as Stiles wanted to flat-out deny Peter’s words, there was a niggling voice at the back of his consciousness that whispered traitorously, ‘ _but how much do you_ really _know about werewolves compared to this guy?_ ’ However, a faint commotion on the other side of the connection made Stiles press the phone even tighter against his ear to try to figure out what was happening. He practically melted into a puddle of relief when he heard Derek’s voice shouting in the background.

“Seriously, Peter? Give me my phone, _now_. What are you even _doing_ with it?”

“Nothing, dear nephew. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re smiling, so it’s clearly not ‘nothing.’ Now give me my damn phone.”

“No.”

There was a growl, then a grunt of pain accompanied by the sound of Derek’s cell phone falling onto a hard surface. Then, Derek’s voice—louder and clearer this time—spoke up.

“What’s going on, Stiles?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Caller I.D. Now why did you call?”

 _“Jackson’s pregnant!_ ” Stiles heard Peter yell from the background.

“SHUT UP, PETER,” Derek practically screamed—clearly from directly beside the microphone—and Stiles had to switch from his right to his left side with a muttered “Rude, sourwolf,” willing away the ringing in his ear. “You were saying?” the alpha asked in a more even tone.

“Tell that jerkoff to go play evil queen somewhere else,” Stiles all-but-yelled, and was rewarded when Peter’s “ _I heard that, Stilinski!_ ” filtered through the connection.

“But seriously,” Stiles continued, “Jackson’s throwing up and we can’t make him stop. What… what could do that? He’s a werewolf: I thought you guys were, like, immune to most diseases and stuff?” Behind him, Jackson was panting into the toilet, a string of unhappy moans and whimpers coming from between his lips. Without warning, he lurched forward and started retching into the toilet again, though this time nothing came up. As soon as the blond had finished spasming, Scott moved closer and twisted himself and began gently running his hands over Jackson’s face in soothing motions. The thumbs the brunet was brushing over high cheekbones came away shiny with moisture, and, with a twisting sensation in his gut, Stiles realized that Jackson’s shoulders hadn’t stopped spasming when the rest of him did; they were still shaking. Jackson was _crying_ ; he was _Jackson-fucking-Whittemore_ : he _never_ cried.

There was a pause before Derek answered.

“First of all, he’s not pregnant—” Stiles’ gut untwisted slightly, “—Peter’s a disgusting liar. Second of all, just to set the record straight—because I can hear your heart pounding over the phone—male werewolves can’t get pregnant, nor can their male mates get pregnant. We might be supernatural, but we aren’t goddamn fairies, Stilinski; we’re not stupidly magical. So yeah, it’s probably just stress. I mean, you guys have all been officially going out for, what, five months? And now you’re all living together in an apartment during your first year of college? His wolf is probably still acclimating.”

“Officially, six months, two weeks, and two days,” Stiles murmured, and he saw Isaac and Scott both smile slightly at the words, “but this whole mess started about four months and three weeks before that. But who’s counting.”

“Right,” he heard Derek cough awkwardly, “anyway, there’s not really much you can do at this point except stay with him and try to help him through the worst of it. Since he’s the newest wolf—and he has the worst control over the urges of his wolf in general—out of all three of them, it’ll probably be a few days until he’s completely better.”

Stiles’ heart dropped through his stomach.

“A few days? Derek, classes start on the twenty sixth. That’s less than a week! You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

There was a grumble from the other end before Derek answered.

“Two, maybe three, maybe four days, Stiles. I can’t be more specific than that.” The older man’s tone took on an almost tender edge, and okay: maybe Derek wasn’t _completely_ useless as an alpha. “I can tell you, though, that this is the worst of it. If he’s still throwing up tomorrow, give me a call and I’ll be there within an hour.”

“But, dude, it’s two hours from here to Beacon Hills.”

“If he’s still throwing up tomorrow, call me and I’ll be there within an hour,” Derek repeated, and Stiles was quite sure that if he’d been able to see the alpha, he would’ve been getting a face-full of red eyes. The brunet sighed, tension drained out of him like water from a broken tub.

“Thanks, Derek. Punch Peter for me, would’ya?”

There was a quick cry of pain from the other end, and then Derek’s voice again: “Done. Now go take care of your mate.”

The phone beeped in Stiles’ hand, indicating that Derek had hung up. Stiles just shook his head at the screen before he moved behind Jackson, pocketing his phone and placing his palms over the blond’s shoulder blades. He moved his hands in slow, gentle circles, contemplating what to do; his mates were still taking away Jackson’s pain in turns—though for much briefer stretches than when they’d first started—and whispering comforting words in the blond’s ear. Stiles buried his nose in Jackson’s clammy, sweat-sheened neck, placing soft kisses to the skin there, before he nodded to himself, making up his mind.

Standing again and walking silently to the kitchen, Stiles rummaged around in the boxes marked “dishes” until he found three glasses. Filling each with water from the sink, he carried them carefully back to the bathroom, setting them on the counter and giving each of his boyfriends a kiss on their head with a whispered ‘love you guys.’ Then he went back to the kitchen, pulled out the boxes marked “pantry” and “cooking,” and put a small pan of water on the stove. He looked down at the oatmeal and brown sugar where they were clutched tightly in his hands, fingertips turning white with the strength of his grip. It wasn’t gourmet, and it wasn’t much, but it was what he could do.

Even if he couldn’t take away Jackson’s pain, he could do this. For all of them.

 

~*~*~*~

 

After the run he and Jackson shared, Isaac had thought that things between the four of them would be, if a little different, at the very least something approaching _normal_.

He was wrong.

When they returned to school, the awkward silences that stretched between them were unbearable. At lunch, they all sat together—Isaac and Scott on one side of the table while Jackson and Stiles sat together on the other, as per normal—but Isaac couldn’t bring himself to speak. Every time he opened his mouth, or so much as looked at Stiles or Jackson, all he could imagine was how they’d looked wrapped up in each other, how Jackson had felt wrapped around _him_ , or how Stiles had—he shook his head, mentally slapping himself to cut off the stream of images and sensations. Isaac caught Stiles’ gaze once, and the brunet had opened his mouth as if to say something—Isaac could hear his heart racing—before he snapped it shut with an audible click of teeth, looking away pointedly. Jackson just didn’t look at him at all: the shorter blond spent the entire lunch period focusing on what was apparently an absolutely _fascinating_ spot on the table. Scott did much the same, his face creeping into darker and darker shades of red as the hour wore on. None of them touched their food.

When the bell rang, the droll sound filtering from the speakers mounted throughout the cafeteria, they all stood without a word. Jackson grabbed Stiles’ hand and pulled the brunet away with him before the last of the three tones had sounded. Scott looked up at Isaac and shrugged helplessly at the blond, looking like a kicked puppy. Isaac couldn’t stand that look.

“It’ll be okay,” he told the brunet, reaching up to cup at Scott’s face. Scott just nodded wordlessly, his eyes falling to the floor. The sad, hurt, _lost_ expression stayed firmly in place.

They parted ways just outside the cafeteria, Isaac heading to Government—which he shared with Jackson—while Scott went to Calculus. When he arrived, Jackson had moved from—what had been, just yesterday and the two weeks before that—his normal seat beside Isaac at the back to one in the very front. The shorter blond was looking resolutely down at his notebook as he copied something the teacher was busy scrawling on the board. He didn’t even glance up when Isaac muttered a soft ‘hey’ that was only audible with werewolf hearing. Something cold dripped down Isaac’s spine as he took his seat, pulling out his notebook and staring sightlessly at the board. He resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands and let out the decidedly dog-like whine building in his chest.

Senior year had only just started, and Isaac was afraid he’d already alienated two of his best—his only—friends.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Scott stared at the papers spread out on the bed, fingers crawling up to his scalp to tangle in his brown hair, and he had to resist the urge to pull any harder than he was already. Diagrams of the human anatomy stared back: the hundreds of names and terms he had to have memorized by Monday. It was only halfway through the semester, and Scott already felt like he was falling further and further behind. Seriously, how was he supposed to learn the physiology of muscles and how they worked—which was fucking complicated! So many steps!—and then be expected to learn the names of most of the muscles in the body on top of that? It wasn’t fucking possible!

Scott curled himself into a ball on top of the sheets, locking his knees between his elbows and squeezing his eyes shut. Red and white diagrams swam behind his lids, but it was all too-much-too-fast and he could never remember what name went with which figure. Any time he thought he’d had a breakthrough, he’d actually end up switching everything around or be on the wrong limb or... or _something_. And if he tried to fill out one of the blank study guides, almost instantly the vast reservoir of names he’d crammed into his skull would immediately dry up. He’d be left staring at the blank lines, feeling as if he hadn’t spent the last five days studying his ass off. It wasn’t _fair_. He _needed_ to pass this class. Otherwise—

“Would you cut that out?” came Jackson’s voice from the doorway to the bedroom, voice tinged with exasperation. “You’re making it impossible to enjoy anything.”

Scott’s eyes flew open, taking in Jackson where the blond stood leaning against the doorframe. Though he was only dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, Jackson always managed to look as if he’d tumbled straight out of an Abercrombie photo shoot; Stiles, Isaac, and Scott had all decided several months ago that—clearly—he was cheating at life. They hadn’t yet figured out how, but they were certain Jackson was doing it.

Scott uncurled himself slightly and propped himself up on an elbow, mind sluggishly taking in Jackson’s words. When they finally clicked into place, Scott felt a burning cold course through him, pulling his brows together.

“How—”

“Dude,” Jackson cut him off, “I can smell your depression all the way in the living room, and I can’t fucking stand it anymore. So you can either wallow in your own pathetic stench along with the knowledge that you’re pissing me off, or you can ask me for help. Honestly,” he tilted his head away from the doorjamb, “I was hoping that we could do something, y’know, _fun_ together since Isaac and Stiles are out on a date, but if studying human anatomy and phys’ is what we have to do, then,” the blond trailed off, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, “well, I guess that’s what we’ll do. Now budge over.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Scott mumbled even as he started gathering his papers and shoving them over to one side of the bed, sliding himself over once he’d cleared a spot. “I know you’ve probably finished all your studying and stuff and that you’ll probably get another 106 percent like last time so, really, you don’t have to go over it again—”

“Shut it, McCall,” Jackson grumbled, taking a seat next to Scott and picking up several scattered pages of notes. “It just means I’ll know it even better, so really you’re just helping me get even better at this shit. Besides, I,” the blond fumbled with his words for a moment, looking down as his high cheekbones flushed an—in Scott’s opinion, though he’d eat (or be force-fed) his own tongue before he ever said it to Jackson’s face—absolutely _adorable_ shade of pink, “I don’t mind helping you, okay? This is your dream, right?”

“Y-Yeah,” Scott stuttered, still not completely used to this side of Jackson despite the more than two years they’d all been together. “Being a nurse is… it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do ever since the first time I went to work with my mom when I was a kid. She literally saved a dude’s life like it was no big deal and then kept going.” He felt a blush of his own creep onto his cheeks. “I just, I want to help people and be as awesome as her.”

Jackson elbowed Scott gently in the ribs, a genuine smile—small but still beautiful, Scott thought to himself, heart hammering in his ears—on the blond’s face as he looked down at the pages of Scott’s study guide in his hands.

“I guess we’d better get to work cramming all this shit into your skull, then, huh?”

And like that, in spite of Jackson’s offer of help, Scott’s mood plummeted.

“That’s just the problem,” he whined, knowing but not really caring how he sounded, “I _can’t_. I’ve been _trying_ , Jacks—for _days_. I know I _have_ to do this because nursing school _requires_ it, but I just, I don’t, I feel like—” Scott felt the frustration welling up in his belly again, and he bit down on the words ( _I feel like I can’t do this_ ) before they spilled from his lips. Scott flopped onto his back as his hands tangled in his hair again, pulling viciously. However, Jackson’s hands wrapped around Scott’s wrists before he could do any lasting damage, and Scott suddenly had a face-full of Jackson’s steel-blue eyes as the other beta practically straddled him and pinned him beneath a hard, unrelenting gaze.

Scott couldn’t help it. He looked away, gaze falling on the stack of papers beside him, which only served to make the frustration in his belly twist in a way that had him crying out and brought tears to his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do, Jacks,” the brunet finally whispered, blinking rapidly to try to clear the moisture from the bottom of his vision. He wanted to sink into the mattress—to bring his hands to his face and just _hide_ , but they were still held in Jackson’s grip. How could his mate—his beautiful, smart, _perfect_ mate—stand to be around a failure like him, he wondered idly, the twisting in his gut getting colder and colder until it felt like he would crack into a million frozen shards. How could _any_ of them bear to even _look_ at him—let alone _share a life_ with him—when he clearly was going to end up accomplishing noth—

“McCall,” Jackson’s voice commanded from above the brunet, “stop. Now. I can practically hear you thinking down there.”

Scott squeezed his eyes shut and felt a tear fall across the bridge of his nose. What was _wrong_ with him? He was actually _crying_ over this?

“Scott,” Jackson’s voice was softer, and Scott felt a pair of lips between his eyes, kissing away the lone tear. After that, the lips moved to caress beneath his eyes, kissing away any new tears that were threatening to form. However, it was the use of his first name moreso than the kisses or the tender touches of calloused fingertips on his cheeks that made Scott turn his head to look up at the blond, eyes cracking open. Jackson’s frown dissolved into a toothy smile the moment Scott’s browns met his nearly-grey-blues, and Scott felt his heart lurch at the sight.

“I’m going to help you, okay?” Jackson murmured, leaning down until his forehead was barely-there pressing against Scott’s. “ _And_ , because I’m so fucking awesome, I’m going to cheer you up at the same time.”

The blond’s hands dropped to Scott’s shirt and slid under it, eliciting a gasp from Scott as sparks trailed over his skin at his mate’s touch. The garment was pulled off the brunet’s body and flung off the bed.

“So, when I was learning this stuff,” Jackson spoke softly, leaning back until he was perpendicular to Scott’s prone form and fussing with Scott’s belt buckle, “I usually found that finding a point of reference on a real person helped way more than any stupid drawing or picture could. Even if it was my own body.”

Scott heard his belt buckle come undone, and felt the pulling sensation as Jackson yanked it from his pants and threw it with the already-discarded shirt. Then, in a matter of seconds, Jackson had the button and zipper of Scott’s jeans undone and had tugged them off and thrown them with the other clothes. Scott shivered as the air made sudden contact with his legs, and he felt a blush creep up his cheeks as he realized that he was in nothing but his boxers. Admittedly, Jackson had seen him in less, and they’d had their fair share of dates with just the two of them, but the atmosphere had been completely different then, usually with an undercurrent of love and affection and a pervading sense of _need_. This moment felt… if Scott was honest with himself, the moment felt downright _tender._ And _intimate_. Sure, he’d always known Jackson possessed this side to him, but up until now Scott had only seen it when either Stiles or Isaac were present.

Scott was startled out of his musings when he noticed that Jackson had shucked his own shirt—Scott knew he could never have denied the fact that his mouth went absolutely _dry_ at the sight, because come on: it was _Jackson_ —and was maneuvering out of his shorts, leaving both of them in their underwear.

“Now relax,” Jackson murmured, and began pressing feather-light kisses and touches to Scott’s chest, his lips ghosting around Scott’s nipple as his fingers rubbed gentle circles just below Scott’s armpit, making Scott squirm and moan slightly. Suddenly, Jackson’s fingers pushed down—not hard, but it was a drastic change compared to the way he’d been practically floating over Scott’s skin before—and he lifted his face to stare into Scott’s eyes; the brunet couldn’t help the whine of loss that leaked from his throat.

“What muscle is this?”

Scott just stared at his mate for a moment, shock and incredulity warring in his head before the latter won out.

“Really?”

Jackson leaned down and sucked Scott’s nipple into his mouth, gently gnawing at the hardening nub. Scott _writhed_ at the jolt of pleasure the movement sent down his spine, but the moment was short-lived as Jackson pulled off of him and repeated his question, fingers dimpling Scott’s skin slightly as he presses down. When Scott glare-pouted at him, Jackson just smirked. “Answer correctly and I’ll keep going.”

“Fine, god. Uh,” Scott searched his memory for the muscles of the trunk and trying not to focus on the feeling of Jackson’s thumb as it slowly, teasingly traced his ribs, “the, uh, fuck, the pecs?”

“Wrong,” Jackson replied, “the serratus anterior.” Scott just groaned; yeah, there was no way he was _ever_ remembering that. “And for the record,” the blond added, fingers coming up to work at Scott’s nipples the way his mouth had been doing moments before, “your pecs—well, your pectoralis majors, really—are under these.”

Jackson’s skated his fingers across Scott’s skin, leaving electricity in their wake. He worked his way slowly down until the tips brushed just above Scott’s navel, drawing breathy moans out of the brunet as Scott tried to lean up into the touch.

“What’s this?” Jackson asked, fingers rubbing up and down the plane of Scott’s taut stomach, smirking; Scott felt his muscles give a series of involuntary flutters under Jackson’s fingers.

“That one’s easy,” Scott managed to get out between breaths, “abs.”

“Almost,” Scott practically growled, and Jackson’s face pulled into a smirk. “Which ones? There are four.”

“Shit,” Scott breathed, and Jackson’s laugh was music to his ears. However, he didn’t let it distract him: he _knew_ this one, if only he could _remember_. There were four, Jackson had said. He remembered something about this: three of them were all tightly packed together while one was on its own, and that was the one into which Jackson was currently pressing, Scott was sure.

“The, uh,” Scott began, when all of a sudden it crashed into his mind and he couldn’t restrain his shout of “the abdominal rectus!”

“Good,” Jackson muttered before adding, “also known as the rectus abdominis.”

And with that, the blond’s lips began tracing around Scott’s nipples again—making them stiffen as Scott _moaned_ —before he moved down, placing open-mouthed kisses in a hot trail down to the muscle he’d just had Scott name. The blond spent a few moments making Scott writhe under his tongue, and Scott reached down to thread his fingers through Jackson’s hair when the blond caught his wrists, growling out a “no touching” before he continued his ministrations. The meaning behind his words was clear as day, though: ‘ _no touching me or yourself_.’

After a few moments more, Jackson moved to the side, licking a broad stripe from Scott’s hip up to near his belly button. As he felt Jackson making the wet line across his stomach, Scott had to grit his teeth to keep in a gasp at the contact.

“And that?” Jackson asked, tone back to normal. He ran the tip of his tongue back along its previous path before latching onto the skin above Scott’s hip and nipping playfully at the sensitive spots he knew were there. Scott arched off the bed, and Jackson pressed a hand onto Scott’s other hip, effectively trapping the brunet.

“The, uh, shit,” Scott couldn’t seem to get his mind back on track, “I don’t know Jacks, but _please_ don’t stop.”

“I’ll give you a hint,” Jackson said into Scott’s skin, smiling, “it got its name because it runs at a strange angle.”

Scott’s whole face tensed, scrunching together as his mind whirled in a haze of pleasure and knowledge and trying to distinguish between the two, before he suddenly shouted out, “the obliques!”

“Right,” Jackson practically purred, tonguing at the reddened skin beneath him and pointedly ignoring the way his attentions had caused a very noticeable tent in Scott’s underwear, “but there are two of them; they’re part of the four abdominal muscles I mentioned earlier.”

Scott felt like he was going to explode soon if Jackson didn’t _do something_ , and he found himself not caring about the way the words that fell from his lips sounded absolutely broken. “How—ah!—how am I supposed to know which is which?”

“The two oblique muscles run perpendicular to each other,” Jackson explained, voice throaty. His words were punctuated by his tongue and teeth tracing an X on Scott’s side before settling on the brunet’s hip. “The external runs this way,” the blond traced a finger from just beneath Scott’s ribs down to his belly button, “while the internal runs this way,” and the same finger ran from Scott’s belly button down to where Jackson had been building up his mark.

“The internal oblique, then,” Scott gasped out; he could see that Jackson’s smile was blinding even through his partially-closed eyelids.

“Well done,” the other beta smirked before latching onto the spot he’d been teasing by Scott’s hipbone, biting down until the brown-eyed beta was sure he was bleeding but still moaning as Jackson brought him teetering to the border between pleasure and pain. When the blond pulled back, Scott could see an impressive bruise that was rapidly fading to purple and green with a rush of warmth. He felt a pang of disappointment that the mark from his mate was fading so quickly, but the whine that leaked from his throat was swiftly cut off and replaced with a whimper as Jackson surged upward and licked and nipped at the skin under Scott’s chin.

“And this?”

“F-fuck, Jacks, I have no idea.”

“The platysma.”

Scott just nodded, his eyes screwing shut as Jackson pulled back. He knew it was coming, but it didn’t help the sense of _loss_ when his mate’s body was no longer draped over his own.

And then the blond moved his fingers back down just below Scott’s armpit.

“And what’s this, again?”

The brunet’s eyes flew wide. Shit, they’d done this not even five minutes ago.

“The, uh…” Scott wracked his memory. Above him, Jackson’s hopeful expressed was slowly dropping away. Scott knew he couldn’t let that happen, and dug back through the muddy fog clouding his memory until he latched onto the beginning of Jackson’s little game.

“The serratus anterior!”

If Jackson’s previous smile had been blinding, this one was absolutely _breathtaking_. Scott literally could not breathe, the air trapped in his lungs at the beautiful sight before him.

“Good boy,” Jackson growled, a hint of pride in his voice. “Now, though, I think it’s time you had a quick break before we can get any further.”

And in one fluid motion, he ripped Scott’s boxers from the brunet’s body and took his mate’s entire length into his throat. Scott whimpered as Jackson moaned and swallowed around him, sending shocks of pleasure up his spine and down into his toes.

The next morning, when Scott woke up sore but satisfied and with his mate in his arms, he couldn’t help the smile that broke out across his face at the memories of Jackson not only teaching him every muscle in _both_ their bodies, but what _exactly_ each of those muscles could do.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Jackson clutched at the piece of paper in his hand, elation and dread warring in his belly and threatening to tear it apart. He felt like he wanted to scream. He felt like he could jump and reach the fucking _moon_. He felt like he was going to throw up. He felt like there was a chasm in the ground beneath his feet, waiting to swallow him whole if he took an even slightly wrong step.

 _‘…our pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted into our Biochemistry Ph.D. program here.._.’

The words glared at him from the page; the envelope it had been primly folded into had fallen to the living room floor from his numb fingers. There was a rushing sound in his ears—whooshing in time with the throbbing in his chest and fingertips.

_‘accepted’_

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a hand snatch out and grab the envelope where he’d left it on the table. A part of his mind—the part that he can never shut off, can never get to stop analyzing and worrying and _thinking_ and _trying to remember_ —can’t help but notice from the long, tapered, elegant fingers and the half-nervous way they curl around the folded paper, telling him quietly that it’s Isaac, that it’s _always_ Isaac anytime Jackson feels like he’s about to shatter into a million pieces.

The sounds of Scott and Stiles as they horsed around in the kitchen—Scott still in his scrubs from his clinicals earlier that evening—faded into a background buzz as Jackson felt Isaac’s gaze come rest heavily on his frame, considering and questioning all at once.

“Jacks’”?

Jackson had to close his eyes as the words reached his ears, soft and unassuming and _not asking anything_. Jackson knew that one word contained all the questions that had to be burning in Isaac’s throat— _what’s wrong why are you upset how can I help why are you getting mail from_ —without actually asking them outright the way Isaac knew Jackson hated. And it was the _concern_ that was embedded there, the _care_ Isaac took to suppress his own curiosity and attend to Jackson’s needs first, that broke him.

“I got,” Jackson whispered, voice catching as he _gagged_ on the solid mass of guilt building up at the back of his throat, “I got accepted into one of the Ph.D. programs I applied to.”

As the words tumbled out of his mouth in a near-silent rush—inaudible except to Isaac due to the taller man’s proximity and lycanthropic senses—the guilt doubled in size, surrounding and constraining and _filling_ him like the cold of an avalanche coming down on him. His head swam, and he could practically smell the question forming on Isaac’s lips, so he decided to just get it out and over with. Jackson took a deep breath, the warm air of the apartment doing nothing to dispel the chill that ran through his veins and invaded his lungs, and let out the words he’d been dreading ever since he’d seen that quaint envelope sitting on the small table just inside the door.

“In Atlanta.”

Jackson shut his eyes as the words melted into the air between them. There was silence for one of his too-quick heartbeats. Then for a second. Then a third. Jackson counted fifteen of the _thu-thumps_ before Isaac spoke again.

“And?”

Jackson’s eyes flew open, and he felt his face drain of blood.

“What do you mean, ‘and?’” he sputtered. He regretted the momentary lapse in control when, at the edge of his awareness, he heard Scott and Stiles both stop their playful arguing over who could make a fancier dinner—which, some detached part of Jackson’s mind thought wryly, required Scott to actually be able to cook in the first place—and turn to investigate what Isaac and Jackson were discussing in the adjacent room.

“I mean,” Isaac intoned, apparently taking a cue from Jackson and speaking loudly enough that Stiles and Scott could hear, “‘and so what?’ So you got into a program in Atlanta. Jackson, that’s amazing!”

With those words, the taller blond wrapped his arms around Jackson’s shoulders, leaning down to nuzzle into his neck. Jackson turned into the touch unconsciously, his wolf practically humming with contentment in his chest, before he caught himself and stiffened, a weight settling in his stomach.

“So, you’re not mad, then?” he asked into Isaac’s curls. The the other beta pulled back, eyes shining blue blue _blue_ and so beautiful and sincere that Jackson felt a pang in his chest that he ever thought he could keep something from that angelic gaze.

“A little, but I understand why you did it.”

The unease now churning in Jackson’s stomach must’ve been visible on his face—perhaps in the way his eyes felt like they were going to bug out of his sockets as Scott and Stiles moved to stand behind the couch—because Isaac rushed to continue, lifting his hands to squeeze Jackson’s arms in a way the shorter blond found almost annoyingly effective at soothing his frayed nerves.

“A little because you didn’t tell us, Jacks’, not just because you did it. We agreed to have no secrets, right? And the fact that you were applying to and interviewing at a doctoral program on the other side of the country is the sort of thing you’re supposed to tell us. I mean, yeah, I understand—and I’m sure Scott and Stiles do, too—that you didn’t tell us in order to keep us from worrying, but…”

Isaac paused, breaking eye contact and looking down to the side as he drew the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth.

“But you shouldn’t have worried,” Scott piped up, Stiles nodding from beside him, “we’re all in this together, Jacks.”

“Right,” Isaac continued, still looking at the expanse of floor past Jackson’s right knee, “exactly. It’s your future. We aren’t going to—we _can’t_ —deny you that. What kind of mates would that make us, huh?”

The taller blond looked back up into Jackson’s face, and something _twisted_ painfully in Jackson’s chest. There were tears clearly gathering in Isaac’s eyes, and they made Jackson want to rip his own heart out as recompense for having upset his mate. Isaac took a shuddering breath.

“We’ll figure something out. It won’t be easy, but…” he trailed off, eyes holding Jackson’s gaze.

“I mean, it’s,” Jackson muttered, eyes shifting to stare hard at pattern of stitches that made up the couch cushions, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck as heat rushed to his face. “It’s not like it’s the only place I applied and interviewed. I had an interview with another university about an hour from here… I just, I haven’t heard back from them yet and I—I didn’t know how to tell you guys, I’m—” Jackson sighed, dropping his arm back to his side. “Look, I’m really sorry that I didn’t tell you. You’re right: I didn’t want you to worry and maybe it was just because I didn’t want to worry about you guys worrying or anything, and I guess that might sound selfish, but—”

“Jackson,” Stiles cut in with a laugh, bringing Jackson’s eyes back up to find Isaac staring at him, a stunned expression painting the taller beta’s features. “It’s okay, okay? We’re okay. Besides, if you keep rambling like that you’ll steal the only thing that makes me special in this relationship.”

Scott scoffed and cuffed Stiles on the back of the head lightly, earning an annoyed groan from the human at the same time Jackson murmured his almost requisite “Shut up, Stilinski” at his mate’s shitty attempt at self-depreciating humor.

“What Stiles is trying to say and what Isaac was saying—” Scott interjected into the ensuing silence, pulling Stiles around the couch by the arm and coming to join Isaac and Jackson in standing in front of the TV. “—is that it’s fine if you want to go to Atlanta. Like Isaac said, sure, it’ll suck, and, yeah, we’ll miss you like crazy, but, in the end, it’s your life. We’ll still want to be a part of your life whether you’re here or a thousand miles away.”

“Actually,” Stiles stage-whispered, “Atlanta is three thousand miles away.”

“So what?” Scott asked,  waving a hand as if the potential tripling of what would already be a vast distance between them was irrelevant. The twisting sensation in Jackson’s chest flexed, cracked, and then shattered at the simple words, flecking off into something warm that spiraled into his extremities in small trails of fire.

“We’re mates. Who cares how far away he goes? We’ll be here and visit him or we’ll all eventually go there. Either way, we won’t—we _can’t_ —give up on each other.”

They were all silent for a moment, Jackson taking in his mates’ words. It was okay. They were angry—well, more like slightly peeved instead of actually _angry_ —but they understood. It was _okay_. They would be okay.

“Hang on a minute,” Isaac said eventually, “what was that you said a minute ago? You applied to a local university, too?”

It was Jackson’s turn to look at his feet.

“Well, yeah, I mean, their program isn’t _quite_ as good, but it’s still the sort of research I want to do, but I haven’t heard back from them since the interview so I don’t even know if I got in or—”

“So all this worrying might be completely pointless?”

Jackson shrugged.

“I mean, I guess—”

Isaac made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, his grip on Jackson’s arms tightening before he pulled the shorter blond forward into a bruising kiss.

“You’re an idiot sometimes,” Isaac whispered against his lips. “Don’t ever change.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Isaac pulls into his parking spot outside their building and kills the engine. Scott’s still asleep in the passenger’s seat, and Isaac _really_ doesn’t want to wake up the brunet. He seriously does look like a puppy—an _angelic_ puppy, Isaac thinks with a stray thought—when he’s asleep. Still, Isaac’s sure Scott will thank him later when he doesn’t have a stiff neck from sleeping all night in the car. He gently prods his mate in the ribs.

“Scott,” he half-whispers. “Scott, we’re here.”

Scott mumbles something that sounds distinctly like “just one more snooze,” and Isaac has to restrain a snort.

“Scott,” he says again, speaking at his normal volume and shifting his hand to shake Scott’s shoulder slightly. “We’re here, we’re home.”

Another mumble.

“Scott, we’re home,” Isaac adds just the slightest bit of volume and force into his voice. “We need to go upstairs. You have news, remember?”

When Scott just grumbles and rolls so that his shoulder is pressing into the seat, his back to Isaac and shaking the hands on his shoulders off in the process, the blond decides enough is enough.

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he smirks at his mate’s back before adding in a lower tone, “which, to be fair, I totally didn’t, but, y’know, whatever…”

Isaac jams his fingertips into Scott’s armpits and twists, searching for the sensitive spots he’s come to know so well. Scott has always been absurdly ticklish—unless, of course, he’s turned on—and now is no exception. The brunet suddenly arches in his seat with a cry, eyes blown comically wide as he writhes and tries to escape Isaac’s assault. Isaac just grins and wiggles his hand down to Scott’s ribs, not letting up. Finally, Scott screeches, “Okay, okay, I’m awake! Jeez, Isaac.”

Isaac’s smirk morphs into a full-blown grin, and his mate’s dark brown eyes meet his own blues. Scott has the most adorable pout on his face, and Isaac can’t help but lean in to press a quick kiss to the corner of it.

“C’mon then, mister sleepy pants, let’s go upstairs so you can tell us your good news.”

Scott dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, side-eyeing Isaac around his palms.

“I never said it was good news, ‘Saac.” Isaac doesn’t miss the way his boyfriend’s mouth quirks up at the corner. He lets out a snort.

“Right, Scott. Because you’ve been the epitome of sadness ever since I picked you up, and we both know how skilled you are at hiding how you feel.”

“Aw, c’mon, that’s not fair. I could be mysterious and stuff if I wanted to!”

Isaac shrugs. “I call them like I see them, love. And what I see is that you have good news. Now c’mon, let’s get inside so you can share it. ”

He unbuckles himself from his seat and opens his door, sliding out before leaning back in to grab his messenger bag of worldly possessions—which is to say, his laptop and some notebooks—from the back seat. Beside him, he hears Scott step out of the car with little groans of protest, scowling at Isaac over the roof. On their way through the lobby, they both wave at Jerry—the congenial, graying man who works the front desk of their building at night—and he gives them each a smile and a nod in return before going back to reading his book. The brief walk into the building and over to the elevator seems to have been enough to bring some energy back into Scott’s limbs, because the brunet is bouncing on the balls of his feet the entire ride up, jiggling the elevator. When it finally dings open on their floor—the third out of nine—Scott’s taken to practically _skipping_ from one foot to the other.

Isaac barely catches himself before he outright laughs, turning the sound into a low cough and clearing his throat. Scott gives him a curious—almost accusing—glance, but Isaac waves it away with a mumbled excuse. Scott actually _does_ skip down the hall to their apartment—number 306—and turns around to look expectantly at Isaac when he reaches the door, his face practically splitting in half from how wide his smile is. Because, clearly, Scott’s an international man of mystery and doesn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve.

“Scott, you have a key,” Isaac laughs, walking at his usual sedate pace. Scott simply tilts his head to the side, grin not lessening in the least.

“So? Doesn’t mean I enjoy stuffing my hands down my pants to get it.”

“Oh, is that so?” Isaac counters, pulling Scott’s back to his chest once he reaches the now-hyperactive brunet, effectively trapping him. Scott lets out a small, giggling squawk at the motion, but otherwise makes no move to break the hold his mate has on him. “Then you won’t mind if I just…”

Isaac’s right hand slips under the edge Scott’s scrubs pants, near his hip, letting his fingertips skirt the edge of the mesh shorts Scott is wearing under the garment. Isaac knows the brunet never wears pants under his scrubs unless it’s absolutely freezing out—too hot, he’d complain—but Isaac also knows Scott had never really been comfortable with the idea of just wearing underwear underneath the thin layer of fabric. Under the skin he’s gently teasing with his fingertips, Isaac can feel Scott’s heartbeat stutter, the feeling accompanied by a whine from the shorter man’s throat.

“…reach in here, and…” Isaac continues, palming at the growingly obvious problem in the front of Scott’s shorts—and this, he thinks to himself with a laugh, is why Scott should wear pants, since neither mesh shorts nor scrubs do absolutely _anything at all_ for modesty in dire moments—and licking a stripe up his mates neck before suckling at a tanned earlobe. His hand drifts to the right from between Scott’s legs, nails scraping at his mate’s thighs through thin material.

“…grab these for you,” he finishes, hand slipping into Scott’s pocket to fish out the brunet’s jangling red and black lanyard and drag his cargo out of the brunet’s scrubs. He wraps his right arm—the one with the hand containing his prize—around his boyfriend’s hips, pulling Scott’s lower half back so that he can feel Isaac’s hardness even through the six layers of cloth between them. Scott turns his head to try to look at Isaac, pupils blown wide and eyes glowing a soft yellow, but the blond latches onto the skin behind his Scott’s ear and bites down, drawing a pleased cry from the man in his arms.

“W-why’d you do that?” Scott pants, making the most beautiful incoherent sounds as he tries to resist the effects of Isaac’s ministrations. “You already have your—nngh!—your keys out.”

Isaac jangles his car keys, which have been in his left hand—the one currently wrapped around Scott’s chest. “I know,” he breathes into the wet skin beneath his lips, “but this was more fun.”

And with that, he pulls away, jumping in front of Scott and unlocking the door, rushing into the living room as Scott stands at the threshold with the most painfully adorable expression of shock on his face. Stiles is already home, Isaac sees, and he drops his bag and keys on the couch to greet his mate where the other brunet is submerged up to his elbows in the sink, sleeves rolled up as he cleans cooking residue off of their two good cookie sheets by hand. Isaac wraps his arms around Stiles’ chest, smiling and leaning around with the intent of giving the shorter man a brief peck on the lips. Stiles, however, has other ideas because he drops the cookie sheet he’s holding back into the sink and turns into the kiss. Isaac can feel arms snake around his waist, water seeping through his scrubs and undershirt, as Stiles kisses him thoroughly.

“Stiles,” Scott whines as he shuts the door a bit harder than Isaac knows is absolutely necessary, “stop kissing Isaac! He was mean to me!”

Stiles pulls back and Isaac has to restrain a shiver as the brunet whispers into his mouth, breath ghosting over already-healing, swollen lips, “Oh really? What did you do, I’, huh?”

“Scott’s just upset that my scrubs are so much sexier than his,” Isaac responds without missing a beat. He steps back when Scott makes his presence known by whining softly, and Isaac lets the brunet get a hug and kiss from Stiles as well. Scott keeps his arms around Stiles’ when they break the kiss, leaning in to nuzzle at the human’s neck. Isaac distinctly hears Scott murmur, “Lies, all lies,” into Stiles’ ear. Stiles, for his part, tangles a wet hand in Scott’s hair and gently scratches at his mate’s scalp, drawing a contented sigh from the beta in his arms. Isaac just smirks at them both, letting the smallest of laughs creep from his throat.

“It’s okay, pup, I believe you,” Stiles murmurs as he disentangles himself from Scott’s limbs, which just makes Isaac laugh harder. The human returns his attention to the cookie sheets, scouring them clean while speaking over his shoulder. “So, how were your days, then? Aside from any obvious mean-ness, of course.”

Isaac glances at Scott, wondering if the brunet wants to go first because of the ‘maybe-not-good’ news Isaac’s carrying, but Scott’s giving him an expectant look and bouncing again, so Isaac figures he probably wants to save his own until later.

“Well,” Isaac starts, moving back into the living room to rifle through his bag and raising his voice so Stiles can hear him over the sink. “I had class this morning like always. We’re still on the nervous system for the fourth week in a row. I swear I’m going to come out of this course more prepared for a Ph.D. in neuroscience than vet school.”

He pulls his scrubs top over his head, pulling down his shirt where the damp materials had clung together—not missing the way Scott’s eyes were tracking his motions—before continuing. “And then I went to work, also like always. Nothing really exciting happened. Deaton handed me a uterus from a spay to dispose of and I wasn’t expecting it and it almost went on the floor, but that was about it. He got a good laugh out of it, at least, I suppose.”

Scott actually let out a bark of laughter, while Stiles just pulls a face. “A uterus? Really, I’? Was that necessary to share with the class?”

Isaac rolls his eyes in what he hopes will be understood to be a good-natured way—though, honestly, he had to remind himself, eight years’ time in each others’ company usually seemed to make it much easier to interpret moods, so there shouldn’t be much reason to worry—before he, too, laughs, undoing the knot in the cord holding his scrubs pants up.

“Well, you asked. Anyway, after that it was just business as usual—a few appointments, cleaning cages, you know how it is—and then I went home. Jackson called on the way and asked me to pick up Scott because he was running late, so I did, and now I’m here.” After a beat of silence during which he shucks off the blue material covering his jeans, he adds, “It sounded like Jackson was having a pretty shit day, actually. Something’s upsetting him. He said he’d tell us later.”

“Huh,” Stiles muses, “well, I’m glad that you had a good day at least. What about you, Sco—Scott, why are you hopping around like a bunny that’s discovered the joys of coffee?”

“IregisteredforJackson’sclasstoday!” the brunet lets out in a rush, voice a half-octave higher than normal. Isaac blinks at Scott before pushing an eyebrow towards the ceiling and shifting his gaze over to Stiles, finding an equally perplexed expression and a shrug waiting for him. He moves his bag to the side and takes a seat on the dark brown couch that dominates the space they refer to as the ‘living room’—really, it’s part of the same common room that holds the kitchen, but it’s the spot with the TV and couch—before saying, “Okay, Scott, um, would you mind repeating that a bit slower? And maybe this time with, y’know, more explanation?”

Scott nods vigorously. “So, you know how I told you guys that, even though I love nursing, I’ve been really angry at the fact that I’m getting told what to do all the time by people who don’t spend enough time with the patients?” When Isaac and Stiles both nod, he continues, “Well, I’ve decided I want to go to medical school.”

Isaac’s eyes open wider, and he feels a jolt of excitement surge through him for his mate. “That’s awesome, Scott!” he cheers, leaping over the back of the couch and taking the brunet in his arms to kiss the top of his head. Turning the water off and pulling a dishtowel off the rack to dry the now-clean cookware, Stiles groans half-heartedly. “Seriously? Am I gonna be the only one in this apartment without some sort of fancy-ass degree?”

“You have a bachelor’s in computer science, love,” Isaac shoots back, “you can do way more with that than we can with a bachelor’s in biology. Besides, you’d be bored if you tried to go back to school.”

“Yeah, whatever, so,” Stiles waves away Isaac’s words with a barely-concealed smile, turning around to focus on Scott, waving the towel in his hands in a vaguely menacing fashion, “what does this have to do with Jackson?”

“Well, you guys know how he’s gonna be teaching again next semester?” Isaac wonders where exactly this is going, but he nods into Scott’s hair anyway. In front of him and Scott, Stiles is nodding too, Isaac’s confusion echoed on the brunet’s face.

“Well, turns out he’s teaching biochem, which I never took to get my nursing degree because it wasn’t required, but it _is_ required for med school. And it’s a night class, so I won’t have to stop working, either.  All I had to do was tell Kim and Hannah that I can’t work nights on certain days and everything was fine.”

There’s a brief silence, broken by Stiles asking, “So, does that mean…?”

“I signed up for Jackson’s class!” Scott finishes, positively beaming. “You guys both know how much teaching can frustrate him, and I figured it’d be, y’know, nice to have someone in there he knows for once.”

A grin splits Stiles’ face, and Isaac can feel a matching one pushing at his cheeks.

“He’s gonna be so happy,” Stiles murmurs fondly, pulling Scott into a hug and motioning for Isaac to join them, and the blond allows himself to be pulled into the embrace. He revels in the warmth for a moment, taking in the scents of _mate_ , _safe_ , and _love_ with a happy sigh, before he’s struck by an idea.

“Wait, Stiles, you’re right.”

“Of course I am. I’m always right,” Stiles quips, but Isaac overrides him, lifting his head up to speak.

“No, I mean you’re right: Scott’s news is totally gonna cheer Jacks’ up. But why do we have to stop there?”

Scott turns to Isaac, brows furrowed, and Stiles wears a similar expression until his face clears and his eyes widen. “Are you suggesting—” the human starts, and Isaac can feel his pulse quickening.

“That we’re all home before Jackson,” Isaac finishes, not stating his thoughts outright to give Scott another moment to catch on, “and we know he’s going to be late, so we have time. He’s also had, from the sound of it, a really bad day which is only made worse by the fact that he’s, well, late. So…”

“So, why don’t we make it a special night for him, right?” Scott asks, eyes brightening. Isaac presses a quick kiss to Scott’s lips, nodding.

“Stiles, what’s Jackson’s favorite food?”

Stiles just levels him with a deadpan stare, face purposefully blank and impassive while his eyes flash, a look Isaac has taken to translating as ‘are you fucking kidding me right now?’

“Okay, fine,” Isaac laughs, pulling back from his mates and holding his hands up in surrender, “lasagna. Except that takes at least two hours to bake, not to mention about one to two hours to prep. I was more wondering if you knew if there was anything in particular you could make that Jackson really likes?”

Stiles ponders the question for a moment, pulling back from Scott—which elicits another whine from the beta—and bringing his hands up to his forehead in thought. After a minute or so, he looks up.

“I could make that pesto-alfredo sauce that he really likes, grill up some chicken and bacon, make some noodles, make a thing out of it. Except we don’t have the stuff for pesto.”

“Not a problem,” Isaac says with conviction, already moving back to the couch to grab his keys, “what do you need?”

Stiles practically runs to the side of the refrigerator where they keep pens and note cards for events exactly like this, and jots down a quick list. He hands it over to Isaac when he’s done, clicking the pen shut officiously.

“And make sure that the basil is _fresh_ , I’. I can’t do anything with bruised, bug-eaten garbage, okay?”

Isaac chuckles, grabbing the list and shoving it in his pocket before tugging his shoes on.

“You’re never going to let me live down that, are you?”

“Never ever, Lahey,” Stiles laughs with a wink.

“And what do I do?” Scott asks from his spot against the kitchen island, looking between his mates like he’s lost. Isaac crosses the space between them and plants a chaste kiss on Scott’s lips before placing another one on the tip of his mate’s nose, making the brunet scrunch up his eyes. _Just like a puppy_ , Isaac thinks to himself.

“You just be your perfect self,” Isaac breathes, “but, before you do that, help Stiles get set up and pull up Supernatural on Netflix. I’m guessing I don’t need to tell you which season?”

Scott blushes, then grins, at Isaac’s words. The brunet shakes his head emphatically, and Isaac pulls away from him, heading for the door.

“I’ll be back in about twenty minutes,” he calls over his shoulder, and his mates acknowledge him with waves—and a smile in Scott’s case—and shouted ‘love you’s and ‘drive safely’s.

Tonight was going to be perfect. Isaac was going to make sure of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's Part 2. Part 3 should be incoming, but, as before, there's not a set time-table on when that will be. (Also as before, my conservative estimate is a week)
> 
> On the plus side, I've completely finished writing the story at this point, so now it's just a matter of making it read-worthy.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and any comments you guys deign to bestow upon my person, especially constructive criticism, are always welcome.
> 
> (psssst... there may or may not be a super-secret chapter 8 in the works... but you can't tell anyone...)


	4. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first attempt, debating seasons, the first date, soothing workday woes, discussing missing pieces, a worrisome moment, and Jackson comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I'm hoping to get into a Friday posting schedule with the rest of this story, so, as it's now Friday (it is here on the East Coast... it's 12:49 AM. It counts! Don't judge me!), I'm posting it. Yeah... That's really all there is to say on the matter I suppose.
> 
> As a point of interest, this chapter is longer than all the other ones in its style by about 4k words (so not by all that much); this is probably due to the fact that it's seven scenes long instead of five (oops). Also, this is pretty much the only chapter in the entire story that has actual, bona-fide smut in it. All 98 words of it, I believe. Enjoy!
> 
> Anyway, my fantastic beta has been very, _very_ busy so I decided to give her a break and just post this chapter unbeta'd. As such, any and all mistakes/eccentricities are my own. (If I get a beta'd version I'll replace this current one with that one and I'll be sure to change the note)

Isaac sat in his chair at the dinner table, fiddling anxiously with his fork as his nerves clawed at the inside of his chest. The stainless steel tool caught the light at just the wrong angle, and the overhead light briefly shone directly in his eye. He flinched slightly, drawing out a chuckle from his boyfriends where they were seated around him.

“Nervous, ‘Saac?” Scott asked with a cheeky grin, his own fork in hand.               

Isaac swallowed, shrugging a single shoulder.

“I mean, it’s not every day I cook for you guys. Or, well, ever before, really…”

So far, in the four months since they’d all moved into their apartment together, only Stiles had cooked. Jackson always claimed to be too busy—which _was_ true, given that he wanted to graduate in three years and so was taking twenty two credit hours of courses this semester—and Scott… Well, none of them trusted Scott with anything more complicated than a microwave after the morning of their first full weekend in the apartment, something they now simply referred to as “The Event.” And Isaac… Well, Isaac had never really cooked anything before in his life.

To say he was nervous was an understatement, and he found himself regretting choosing something as complicated as _lasagna_ to start. Sure, he’d followed the instructions he’d found online to the letter—having a father who always barked orders at you tended to make you good at such things—but still: he’d _never_ done this before, and while these were his mates he was making this for, these were also _his mates_. He just hoped he didn’t disappoint them.

“Hey,” Stiles piped up, glancing up from where he’d been watching cat videos on his phone—yes, cat videos, Isaac could hear the meows and purring from where he sat, “it smells fantastic, I’. I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”

As if to accentuate his point, Stiles’ stomach gurgled before growling. Loudly. Almost as if in answer, the timer on the oven chose that moment to start beeping at them.

“I’ll just, uh, go get that,” Isaac mumbled, dropping his fork back onto the table with a clatter. He moved over to the oven to silence the timer and grab some hot pads to hoist the thirteen by nine glass pan onto the stovetop, acutely aware of his mates’ eyes on him the entire time.

“It, ah, it’s supposed to cool for ten minutes,” Isaac explained apologetically, “but if you want some now, then I mean—”

“Is the experiment ready in there? Can I come out now?” came Jackson’s voice from the bedroom (Stiles’ whispered “Too fucking easy…” made Isaac smile despite his nerves), the sound quickly followed by Jackson himself. He caught view of the pan on the stovetop and his face lit up.

“Oh man, you made lasagna? Since when do you know how to make lasagna?” Jackson swooped over to Isaac’s side, wrapped his arms around the other beta’s waist, and planted a sloppy kiss on the taller blond’s lips right then and there. Isaac felt himself leaning into the kiss almost instinctively, and his lips chased Jackson’s when the shorter blond pulled away, whispering, “If it hadn’t already happened, I’d say I just fell in love with you.”

Isaac blinked, still reeling slightly from the kiss—Jackson _knew_ he had that effect on him, damn him—and he watched as Jackson pulled four plates out of the cabinet above the sink, cutting into the steaming pan of pasta, meat, and cheese with an almost child-like glee on his face. It wasn’t until Isaac saw Jackson grab a spare fork and move to shovel a bite of his prize into his mouth that he managed to get his mouth to work again.

“H-hey, wait, Jackson! That’s still really—”

But too late, Jackson had already placed the steaming mass into his mouth, eyes widening when it made contact with his tongue.

“—hot,” Isaac finished lamely.

However, instead of waving his hands in a very undignified, un-Jackson-like manner and fanning at his mouth the way Isaac expected, Jackson’s eyes rolled upward and he let out a guttural moan that made Isaac’s pants suddenly feel a size too small.

“Oh my _god_ , _Isaac_ ,” the shorter beta practically crooned, speaking around his food, “you are cooking this every night, am I clear? Or at least once a week, I mean, _my god_ , where have you _been_ all my life?”

Isaac studiously ignored the way Stiles muttered “Across the street” under his breath, instead letting his face break into a sheepish grin as something warm tugged at his chest.

“I mean, it’s my first try, so you don’t have to pretend it’s good or anyth—”

“Pretend? Are you _kidding_ me? Oh my god, guys,” Jackson turned to Scott and Stiles, finally swallowing his first bite , “you have _got_ to get some of this. It’s seriously like heaven on a plate.”

The other two teenagers scrambled over to the kitchen from the table, and Isaac’s face stretched into a grin, his eyes catching Jackson’s. The shorter blond was staring at him with a strange sort of intensity, and Isaac found himself fidgeting under the gaze, smile drooping slightly.

Jackson stepped closer to him.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered, “you look good when you smile. You should do it more.”

And as he pressed his lips to Isaac’s again, Isaac couldn’t help but whisper “Flatterer, you just want me to make more lasagna” into their joined lips, smiling more widely into the kiss.

The laugh he drew out of Jackson was completely worth the confused looks their boyfriends sent them.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Okay, no,” Stiles huffed, grabbing the Wii-mote out of Jackson’s hands, “we are _not_ watching season one again. I swear to god, Jacks’, you and fucking Wincest. It’s never gonna happen, babe, you need to just accept that.”

“Hey,” Jackson retorted, letting his irritation leak into his voice, “you can’t tell me that you think they _aren’t_ fucking. I mean, come _on_. Just _look_ at the way they act! No pair of brothers are that close in real life. It’s written all over everything they do!”

Stiles snorted, sorting through the list of available episodes on Netflix. “You’re almost worse than Scott and his Destiel.”

“But they’re so perfect together!” Scott piped up from his place leaning against the side of the couch, sitting between Jackson’s spread legs. Jackson nudged the brunet with his knee, grinning at the blinding smile Scott shot him. Scott had a ship, even if they didn’t see eye-to-eye on which one was better. Scott understood. Stiles never would.

“H-hey!” Scott pouted when he noticed his favorite season whisk past on the screen. “You went right past season four!”

“Uh, duh,” Stiles rolled his eyes, “that’s because it’s currently in-between me and season six.”

“Please,” Jackson snorted, pulling out some snark and baiting his human mate, “you just want to ogle Sam without a soul.”

“Hey, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t tap that.”

“I wouldn’t,” came Isaac’s voice from the other end of the couch. The blond had mostly kept out of the squabble, but as one three sets of very disbelieving eyes turned to face him. Jackson let one of his eyebrows raise for emphasis.

“What?” the blond asked, putting his hands up defensively. “I have you guys. Besides, is it so hard to believe that I like the show for its story and not because I want to gaze longingly at the hunks of man meat on display? I mean, the plot actually comes full circle after—hey! Don’t go past season five! What’re you—ugh, fine, whatever, I guess we’re watching season six again.”

“Damn right we are,” Stiles murmured, a satisfied smirk decorating his features. The brunet pulled Isaac closer from where the beta had been sitting, murmuring something that sounded distinctly like ‘cuddles, now.’ Onscreen, Dean was dreaming of a voiceover Sam telling him to “go live some normal, apple-pie life.”

Jackson leaned forward a bit and started carding his fingers through Scott’s locks, playing with the silky soft strands. The gentle rubbing elicited a purring sound from Scott—Jackson had yet to figure out if the brunet was aware that he did it or not—that went straight between Jackson’s legs, making him eternally grateful that he was wearing sweatpants as Scott leaned into the touch like some kind of cat. Isaac must’ve smelled his arousal, because a low growling was coming from where the other beta was curled in Stiles’ arms. When Jackson looked, Isaac’s eyes were glowing faintly, pupils wide.

Oh yeah, he decided, family movie nights were the best. Especially afterwards.

 

~*~*~*~

 

It was their first date. As in, their first _real_ date. With the four of them. All _four_ of them on a date. At once. On a date. _Four_ of them. Dating. _Together_.

Stiles could remember how they got here: the conversations during restless nights, the awkward avoidances at school, the feeling of slowly drifting apart, until—until they’d somehow ended up talking about _them_. As in _all of them_. Not two couples any more, but something else. Something _more._ Something that, while terrifying and strange, was the single most _beautiful_ idea that had ever run through Stiles’ overflowing mind. Admittedly, he thought to himself, it might’ve been _his_ idea in the first place, but it wasn’t like that made it any less beautiful.

They had decided to go bowling. Jackson and Scott, of course, got way too into it and started trying to see who could score more strikes in a row. Stiles and Isaac shared a look over their boyfriends’ heads, exchanging exasperated smiles. And, god, was it different to suddenly think of that phrase—their boyfriends—being used in the plural sense to apply to both of them. But, at the same time, it made something warm flip over in Stiles’ stomach.

“Stiles,” came Scott’s voice, “it’s your turn, man.”

Stiles shook his head, looking around. Sure enough, his initials were highlighted, and the screen revealed the name Isaac had chosen for him: Wise Man. Even though he’d seen it seven times already, it still made something in his chest stutter whenever he looked at it. They’d all chosen each other’s names for the computer and agreed to pick words that described traits they each liked about the person whose name they had chosen. Isaac chose Stiles’, Stiles chose Isaac’s, Jackson chose Scott’s, and Scott chose Jackson’s; specifically, they had paired up outside of their previous relationships, because, after all, that was the point of tonight: breaking out of their old mould and forging a new one. Stiles had asked Isaac what the name meant after the blond had entered it, and the curly-haired beta had rubbed the back of his neck and responded that he loved how witty and smart Stiles was, but that he also respected Stiles—“more than I can ever describe, really,” were the exact words he’d used—for his choice to refuse the Bite on multiple occasions. It’d been, like everything else tonight, a completely new experience: gaining Isaac’s respect and adoration because he _wasn’t_ a werewolf—because he’d said no.

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses ‘Brave Niceass’,” Stiles joked before turning to Jackson, hand coming to rest on his hip. “I still can’t believe you couldn’t think of anything better, Jacks’. I mean, really? Niceass?”

“Oh yeah, right, like his is any better,” Jackson retorted, waving at the screen where ‘Heart Hotbod’ blinked innocently in white-on-blue block letters.

“Well, to be fair Jacks’, you have a pretty damn hot body, and you know it,” Stiles chided. He moved his hand from his hip to his chin as if deep in thought, fighting not to break out laughing.

“Although, yeah, Scott, Jackson has a point, too: your ass is pretty sweet.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, though, Stiles felt his entire body flush red as embarrassment clawed up his spine like hot needles. He stood, eyes tracking down to his shoes as he strode jerkily over to the ball return.

“Okay, yeah, uh, on that note, taking my turn.”

Just as Stiles was about to make his shot, he distinctly heard Jackson asking Isaac much more loudly than was necessary, “Hey, Isaac, doesn’t Scott have a nice ass? Back me up on this, man.” Stiles’ hand convulsed mid-swing, and the ball, instead of coming smoothly off his hand, stuck for an extra quarter-second. It went flying into the air, coming down on the lane with a loud _bang_ before bouncing into the gutter, which, Stiles thought to himself, was pretty damn appropriate considering his current state of mind ( _don’tthinkaboutScott’sassdon’tthinkaboutScott’sassdamnittoolate_ ).

He turned in a huff, glaring daggers at the three startled werewolves as he stalked back over to his seat.

“One of you is getting me a spare with your wolfy powers,” he grumbled. The three of them just smiled at him, and Jackson stood and—true to Stiles’ wishes—managed to score a spare for the brunet. And, okay, so Stiles never could resist being cheered up when Jackson shot that smile—the one that practically screamed ‘I did it!’ with an almost child-like glee—in his direction. It was a smile that the blond had never used before they started dating, and every time Stiles saw it he felt a little thrill of happiness course up his spine.

“Alright Isaac, it’s your turn,” Stiles said, gesturing to where ‘Strong Soul’ was flashing on the screen. He’d picked the name because, in his opinion, Isaac was one of the strongest of them—if not in body, then definitely in spirit. What the teen had endured was horrifying, and the fact that he still managed to put a smile on his face and be one of the kindest people Stiles knew boggled his mind.

Isaac hadn’t asked what the name meant. He’d simply grinned at Stiles when he’d seen what the brunet had typed, lips quirking up slightly higher on one side.

The rest of the game passed relatively uneventfully. The only other moment of interest was when Isaac scored his first strike of the game on his ninth turn. Perhaps it was the way the beta whooped and cheered like he’d just won an Olympic medal, or perhaps it was the way Isaac’s face absolutely _lit up_ when he was that happy, but either way Stiles found himself pulled forward as if by some outside force, wrapping his arms around the beta and pulling the blond into a brief kiss. Heat flashed down his spine and pooled in his belly at the feeling of Isaac’s lips on his own, and he pulled away to see that Isaac looked absolutely shocked. Sure, they’d kissed before, but not like that: not _romantically_ and in _public_. Turning around, Stiles took in the open mouths Scott and Jackson were sporting before shrugging.

“What? He deserved a kiss.”

He heard Isaac bark out a laugh behind him while Scott and Jackson both smiled, though Scott’s smile quickly fell. Stiles quirked his head to the side.

“What’s up, Scott?”

“The guys a couple lanes over,” the beta explained, “they saw you guys and they’re, uh. They’re saying some pretty mean things.”

Jackson’s face turned down in a scowl as he, too, listened in, and Stiles whirled around to see Isaac looking crestfallen.

“I’m sor—” the blonde started.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Stiles interrupted him, grabbing Isaac’s hand and pulling him back towards their boyfriends, “it’s not your fault at all, okay? Those guys are just jerks. Besides,” Stiles raised a corner of his mouth in a teasing grin, leaning in to chastely capture Isaac’s lips again once they were situated in their seats and refusing to let go of the beta’s hand, “they’re probably just jealous that I’ve got the best boyfriends ever.”

The thrill that ran through Stiles’ body when he’d said that—‘boyfriends,’ as in plural—out loud for the first time made him shiver, and he felt a warm ball of delight curl in his belly when he saw a similar shiver run through the werewolves around him. Suddenly, it was like some sort of unseen tension had been lifted from Stiles’ shoulders: an oppressive weight that he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. He felt his smile widen.

“C’mere, you two,” he said, motioning to Scott and Jackson, “I’m on a date with three of the hottest guys in the school and I don’t care who knows it.”

The two werewolves grinned before joining Isaac and Stiles. The four of them crowded together. They simply held each other, occasionally murmuring soft, meaningless words of support. Stiles leaned his head against the nearest shoulder—he wasn’t sure whose it was—and sighed happily. The silence between them was broken when Jackson laughed quietly, Isaac and Scott joining in a moment later.

“They’re leaving,” Jackson informed the human when Stiles raised an eyebrow at the three of them. “And they’re complaining to the manager about ‘our kind’ it seems,” Jackson huffed out, mirth coloring his voice before his mouth dropped open. “Oh. _Oh_. Oh, this is good. She’s asking them to not come back. She sounds _pissed_ , Stiles. I wish you could hear this.”

“Good for her,” Stiles laughed, “ignorant jackasses. Let’s finish our game.”

The absolute cherry on top, though, was when the manager came to them and apologized for the behavior of the men who’d left.

“It’s not a problem,” Stiles deflected with a smile, “they didn’t actually say anything to us, personally. And we heard you kicked them out, so, thank you and, seriously, everything’s fine.” He looked over his shoulder at his boyfriends. “Everything’s perfect, actually.”

As they were walking back to their cars, though, things became decidedly less-perfect.

“Hey, queers!” someone shouted from behind them. Suddenly everything was in slow-motion.

Stiles had enough time to turn and see one of the men from earlier striding towards them with purpose, three others flanking him, before the lead man produced a knife and buried it to the hilt in Isaac’s stomach. Shock rooted Stiles to the spot, and he heard Isaac let out a _whuf_ of surprise, his eyes tracking down to the blade buried in his abdomen.

“Go gay up somewhere else,” the man holding the knife grit out, twisting the blade slightly before wrenching it back. Isaac screamed, the sound high and unnatural, and the moment was shattered.

Stiles heard both Scott and himself scream out “Isaac!” as Jackson practically _roared_. A blond blur shot from behind Stiles towards the lead man and knocked him a good fifteen feet through the air before following, the knife clattering to the asphalt somewhere. Another blur—this one Scott-shaped—whipped between the three other men with a cold efficiency, each of them going down in seconds with injuries that would incapacitate them but not seriously harm them. Stiles’ legs felt like lead as he moved as quickly as he could over to Isaac’s side, grabbing the beta’s hand and fighting back tears. There was blood—Isaac’s blood—pooling around them. He tried to contain his rising panic, the words ‘ _He’s a werewolf, he can heal_ ,” running through his head in a silent mantra. Isaac’s sky blue eyes looked into his own, and Stiles squeezed the blond’s hand, whether to reassure himself or the teen beneath him he wasn’t sure.

“I’ll be okay, Stiles,” Isaac coughed, wincing as he pulled on Stiles’ arm and sat up. “It’s mostly healed already, it just looks way worse than it actually is. I don’t think he hit anything too vital, either.”

“You got _stabbed_ , Isaac,” Stiles practically screamed, wiping at his eyes with his free arm, “in a parking lot! With a _knife_! I think I’m allowed to be a little freaked out right about now!”

“Stiles,” Isaac intoned, eyes travelling behind the brunet, “I’m fine. But Jackson’s not. You need to stop him. Please.”

Stiles looked behind him, and saw Scott trying—and failing—to restrain a fully wolfed-out Jackson. The blond had trapped the knife-wielding man beneath him and had grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair, repeatedly slamming the back of his skull into the ground with terrifying force.

“Go,” Isaac whispered.

“Jackson, stop!” Stiles shouted, standing from his place beside Isaac and running over to the other two betas. He grabbed Jackson around the shoulders, barely managing to hang on when the shorter blond tried to shake him off.

“Jackson, please, stop, you’re going to kill him!” Stiles begged into Jackson’s ear. The blond didn’t stop; instead he bucked Stiles off with a snarl and continued pounding the man’s head into the pavement. When Stiles saw the pool of blood surrounding the older man’s head, he felt cold fingers claw at his chest.

“Jackson, please,” he whispered, “please, you’re scaring me.”

The effect was instantaneous. Jackson’s whole body tensed, and he jumped off the man as if he’d been crouched over a bonfire, features shifting back to human. He stood there for a moment, no expression on his face, but Stiles knew the blond well enough by now that he could practically hear the thoughts of self-recrimination and justification warring in the beta’s head. After several moments, though, Jackson’s expression shattered like a collapsing building—slow and inexorable, with a kind of sad inevitability and bitterness. His gaze travelled to the blood smeared on his hands, and Stiles rushed forward to wrap Jackson in his arms just in time for the blond’s knees to buckle. If Stiles had been a moment later, his boyfriend probably would’ve hit the ground. As it was, he whispered the most soothing words he knew in Jackson’s ear— _it’s okay, baby, it’s alright, it’s fine, let’s get you out of here and cleaned up_ , _you’re okay, I’m here, you’re going to be fine_ —and tried to maneuver him over to the car. All he could manage, though, was the keep Jackson from falling on his ass.

“Isaac, you okay?” Stiles called over his shoulder. He heard the blond grunt and the sound of Scott whining—the words ‘you shouldn’t be moving yet, be careful’ reached Stiles’ ears—before Isaac answered him.

“Yeah, a little sore but otherwise okay.” There was a pause, and Stiles looked over at the other two teens to see them both staring wide-eyed at the blond in his arms. “What’s wrong with Jackson?”

“I think he’s going into shock,” Stiles said, voice pitching slightly higher than normal. “We need to get him out of here. Can one of you help me get him to the car?”

Isaac and Scott looked at each other before nodding. Isaac strode forward—Stiles didn’t miss the way he winced every time he took a step with his left foot—and grabbed Jackson on the side opposite Stiles, hoisting the shorter blond between them.

“Scott’s going to go get his car,” Isaac explained, “I, uh, suppose we’ll have to come back for yours, sorry. Anyway, I’m pretty sure we can take Jackson to our house to get him cleaned up—Melissa probably won’t freak out?”

By the time they’d reached the McCall residence, Jackson still hadn’t spoken a single word. Stiles had said next to him in the back seat, supporting his boyfriend’s weight and carding his fingers through short, blond locks while trying to keep the teen calm. Scott kept his eyes on the road and probably broke at least five traffic laws on the way there, and Isaac kept looking between Scott, the road, and the back seat, giving Stiles and Jackson occasional, reassuring smiles. When they arrived, Scott practically jumped out of the driver’s seat and flung the driver’s side rear door open, hauling Stiles and Jackson out of the car. Stiles squeaked indignantly for both himself and Jackson—Jackson would be so pissed at being manhandled like that, he thought to himself—and then he and Scott were carrying Jackson into the house while Isaac busied himself with the doors and any obstacles that might’ve been in their way.

And, of course, Melissa was home.

“Isaac, oh my god is that _blood_?” Stiles heard her shout from the kitchen. She rounded the corner and stopped cold when she caught sight of her son and Stiles supporting Jackson. Jackson who had blood caked and drying on his hands and knuckles. And then there was Isaac, who had blood soaking into his shirt near a tear above his stomach. She took a deep, shuddering breath before focusing her gaze on Scott. Her voice was soft, but the way it shook slightly betrayed the roiling emotions just underneath the surface.

“Scott, honey, would you like to tell me why both your boyfriend and Stiles’ boyfriend are covered in blood?”

“Uh…” Scott started oh so eloquently, and Stiles instantly realized that they’d all made a _massive_ oversight: they hadn’t told Melissa about the fact that they were all on a date. Together. Nor had they really, well, _talked_ about telling her.

“We were on a double date,” Stiles jumped in, and he tried not to wince as the full weight of Melissa McCall’s focus landed on him, “the four of us, I mean: me and Jackson with Scott and Isaac, y’know? We went bowling and some guys got pissed that we were acting affectionate, so they got thrown out. When we left, they jumped me and Isaac got in front of a knife that was meant for me, I think. Jackson went ballistic and nearly killed the guy that did it. And now he’s freaking out and we came here because, well, you’re a nurse and of our choices you’re the least likely to freak out I suppose? It made sense at the time and—”

“Enough,” Melissa interrupted him, eyes narrowing, “I get the picture. So, the blood on Isaac’s shirt…”

“Is his, yes,” Stiles answered, “but the blood on Jackson’s hands is not, nor is it Isaac’s.”

Melissa stared at Stiles for a moment longer, eyes narrowing until they were mere slits, before shifting her attention back to her son. Seriously, it was completely unfair that a five-foot-six woman in teddy bear scrubs could be that intimidating.

“Is this true, Scott?”

“Yeah,” Scott nodded, the motion jerky and forced even to Stiles, “yeah, that’s pretty much how it happened, Mom.”

If Melissa noticed Scott’s odd behavior—and Stiles was pretty damn sure that she had, because, c’mon, this was Scott: the kid was as transparent as a window—she didn’t say anything, opting to instead shake her head.

“You’re lucky I have a night shift. We will be talking about this later, you two,” she said in a voice that brokered no dissent, gaze shifting between Scott and Isaac, “but, for now, go get yourselves cleaned up and help Stiles take care of Jackson.”

“Thanks, Mrs. McCall,” Stiles managed to get out before he and Scott were maneuvering Jackson up the stairs.

“And if there is _any_ blood on my carpet when I get home, you’ll both be grounded for two months,” Melissa shouted after them, clearly addressing the two teens currently living under her roof.

“And Stiles!” Jesus christ on a stick, was she psychic or something? “Don’t think you’re immune to my matronly wrath just because you’re not my kid! I have my ways, I’ll have you know!”

Stiles gulped audibly. Isaac snickered at him (‘ _Matronly wrath,_ ’ the blond snorted), and Stiles could practically _feel_ Scott rolling his eyes on the other side of Jackson. Stiles heard the sound of jingling keys, a quick “stay safe, at least for the rest of the night, please!” yelled up the steps, then the sound of the front door slamming.

By the time Scott, Stiles, and Jackson had reached the bathroom, Isaac had already started the shower and was stripping out of his bloodied clothes. Stiles and Scott directed Jackson to sit on the edge of the bathtub, and then the three of them set about helping the still-catatonic blond out of his own garments. It wasn’t until Stiles was working on the button fly of Jackson’s jeans that he heard the blond make any sort of noise: a small whimper, barely audible over the sound of the water running. Stiles looked up to see Jackson looking down at him, wide eyes holding unshed tears.

“It’s okay, Jacks’,” Stiles attempted to soothe his boyfriend running one hand up and down the blond’s thigh while the other kept working at the button, “it’s okay, we’ve got you, it’s alright, you’re safe.”

“You were afraid of me,” Jackson whispered, voice cracking in the middle of the declaration. It wasn’t a question. A pair of tears fell from his eyes, tracking down his high cheekbones. However, Stiles shook his head.

“I wasn’t afraid _of_ you, love,” he explained, lifting the hand that’d been stroking Jackson’s leg to the blond’s cheek and wiping the tears away while tracing the freckles there with this thumb, “I was afraid _for_ you. Of what you might do. My god, Jacks’, if you’re this upset over _nearly_ killing a guy, imagine how upset you’d’ve been if you’d _actually_ killed him.”

Something in Jackson’s eyes shifted, turned hard.

“He would’ve deserved it. He tried to kill one of us. He hurt Isaac.” And in an instant the hardness was gone, replaced by eye-widening panic. “Oh my god, Isaac, is Isaac okay?”

“I’m fine, Jacks’,” Isaac laid a hand on Jackson’s shoulder, pulling the shorter blond’s attention onto him. Jackson whipped his head around, and at this distance Stiles could practically feel the way the heartbeat in the body underneath him was hammering—racing—against his skin.

“You,” Jackson whispered, and Stiles was sure that if he hadn’t been as close as he was he would’ve missed it.

“Yes, me,” Isaac confirmed, smiling slightly.

“Y-you’re okay.”

“Yes, Jackson, I’m _fine_.”

Jackson’s face suddenly flushed.

“You’re naked.”

Isaac snorted as Stiles managed to finally get the last button on Jackson’s jeans undone—god, whoever thought of button flies needed to be shot, he thought ruefully to himself—and slide them off the blond’s legs. Stiles shuffled back a step, and Isaac fisted Jackson’s shirt, lifting over the shorter beta’s head. The curly-haired beta helped Jackson to his feet, Stiles watching in amusement from his vantage point as Jackson quickly tore off his socks and shucked his underwear.

“So, uh, I guess we’ll let you guys get cleaned up, then?” Scott asked, voice still not entirely steady, from where he’d been sorting the laundry based on what needed to be thrown out and what could be washed—i.e., things that had blood on them and things that didn’t. Stiles stood from where he’d been kneeling on the floor, knees cracking.

“Yeah, uh, I mean, I’d love to join you guys, and I’m sure Scott would, too, but, uh, the shower’s not big enough for the four of us, so…” Stiles let his words trail off, and saw Scott nod out of the corner of his eye.

“Just, uh, just take care of each other, okay? I’m, yeah, we’re gonna just go now,” Stiles finished lamely, shrugging his shoulders.

“Love you guys,” Isaac called from where he was steering Jackson behind the curtain and into the steaming spray, and Stiles felt his heart skip a beat at how _easy_ the words seemed to be.

“L-love you guys, too,” he called back, tongue stumbling over the words.

Yeah. Yeah that definitely felt right.

“Just, y’know, let’s try to maybe not get attacked on our next date, ‘kay?”

Stiles let himself be pulled from the bathroom into Scott’s room and down onto the beta’s bed, Scott’s nose moving across his collarbone and neck as the werewolf scented him. With every shiver of pleasure that ran down his body at the sensation, he could feel the stress of the evening leaking out of him. In its place, he felt a sense of… the only word Stiles could think of that described it in any way was _wholeness_ : a feeling of _belonging_. He had felt whole tonight for the first time in a long time. The emptiness he hadn’t even known existed had been filled.

And as Stiles settled into Scott’s arms—the beta pulling him in closer, tongue tracing the path of shivers his nose had left behind, soft words of affection and support that melded with the sounds of running water from the open door—he felt a singing warmth radiating from a place where, before, there’d been only silent void.

And, sure, it wasn’t going to be easy—he knew that—but he would fight to keep that feeling alive.

No matter the cost.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Scott was tucked into Isaac side, watching the blond copy his notes from vet school. He’d always loved watching Isaac write—each letter so neat and precise and flowing seamlessly into the next—even if he couldn’t always make out what the words were or what they meant; he just thought his boyfriend’s writing was, in a word, beautiful. He’d once asked Isaac why he copied his notes into a separate notebook if he already had the notes he took in class, and the other beta had simply smiled at him and told him that it was just how he studied. Stiles, meanwhile, was hogging the dining room table—if one could call the open space where the table happened to be sitting the “dining room”—with his laptop and an array of open books spread across the dark, wooden surface, ear buds firmly in place. The sounds of Stiles’ keystrokes and Isaac’s pen scratchings were all that broke the comfortable silence, each of them wrapped up in what they were doing.

However, when Isaac’s head lifted for a moment, eyes darting towards the door before he returned to his notes, Scott took notice. Isaac’s senses always had been the sharpest out of all of them, so Scott closed his eyes and focused, trying to pick up anything that might’ve gotten Isaac’s attention. Their upstairs neighbors were watching TV, there was an ambulance screaming down the street roughly two miles away, Isaac was apparently using Scott’s body wash and Jackson’s shampoo—he couldn’t help but smile at that—and he smelled _especially_ good because of it, Stiles was listening to Adam Lambert, and—

And Jackson’s heartbeat was just outside the apartment door.

The sound sent a thrill dancing down Scott’s spine to the tips of his toes, and he smiled, lifting his head off of Isaac’s shoulder. He saw the blond roll his eyes out the corner of his vision, arching a single eyebrow without looking away from his work. Clearly, he found Scott’s enthusiasm at their mate returning home childishly adorable. However, there was another, deeper message there—hidden in the way Isaac’s eyebrow had come to its prescribed ‘you’re cute but you’re being silly but I love you anyway’ height before shifting the scantest distance higher—that told Scott the excitement he felt at the prospect of the four of them all home, safe and sound, together was shared.

That Scott could read Isaac’s eyebrow-moods by now was probably a testament to the seven years they’d all been together.

When the door opened, Scott allowed himself a moment to take in Jackson—his high cheekbones, flawless milky complexion, strong jaw, piercing steel blue eyes, and the way he filled out whatever clothes he wore like he was born looking fabulous—before he was wrapping the shorter blond in a hug. Jackson was shrouded in a sour aura of unhappiness, and Scott felt his heart lurch in his chest as he nuzzled into the bond’s neck, muscles tense beneath Jackson’s skin. His heart lurched for another, altogether different reason as he took in Jackson’s other scents: an overwhelmingly _sterile_ scent from his work in the lab, the sour sadness that Scott had smelled earlier, Jackson’s various hygiene products—which, to be fair, smelled _amazing_ , though Scott doubted he blond would’ve settled for anything less—and coating all those were the scents from dozens of his students, mixing until they formed an incomprehensible sense of _otherness_. Tucked like a preserved flower beneath all that, though, was something that Scott identified as purely _Jackson_ : sharp and sweet, with an almost airy feel to it that reminded Scott of a breeze across a grassy field in the forest.

He rubbed his nose along the underside of Jackson’s jaw line, trying to add his own scent to the mixture. Scott almost— _almost_ —moaned when Jackson’s own scent intensified, gaining an undercurrent that Scott knew to be Jackson’s happiness. He’d learned long ago that many emotions smelled alike across various individuals, but that happiness was unique to each person. Jackson’s happiness was soft and subtle—evoking images of snuggling into freshly cleaned white linens—but it always made Scott feel as if he could fly. Especially during moments like these, when he knew that _he_ was the cause of that happiness.

“Thanks, Scott,” Jackson whispered into his ear, muscles unclenching beneath the brunet’s hands, “I needed that.”

Jackson sagged slightly in Scott’s grip, his bag swinging around from the motion to lightly poke at Scott’s thigh, but Scott ignored the intruding article in favor of holding his mate tighter.

“Rough day?” came Isaac’s voice from behind them.

“Yeah,” Jackson answered at a volume approaching normal, voice sounding weary. Scott felt the blond’s body trying to tense up again, so he nuzzled into Jackson’s  collarbone and tightened the grip he had on Jackson’s midriff again.

“Okay, seriously, Scott,” Jackson said, weariness unabated, “I need to actually get inside the apartment and put my stuff down.”

Scott let a whine trickle out of his throat, letting his mate know that he was _most_ displeased with the idea of letting him go for any length of time when the blond was so clearly distressed. Jackson rolled his eyes so hard that Scott could feel it from where he was nosing at the tendon joining Jackson’s shoulder and neck. Behind him, Isaac chuckled.

“You can cuddle me all you want in a minute, doofus, just get off and let me shower. I still smell like failure and stupid.”

More than anything, it was the image of Jackson wet and naked that finally made Scott pull back, gazing into the blond’s face. Maybe, Jackson wouldn’t be opposed—

“And no, you can’t join me, McCall, so wipe that grin off your face. I’m just… not in the mood right now, okay?”

Oh.

Well then.

Scott huffed—he knew he was pouting, he just didn’t _care_ —and went back to the couch, leaning into Isaac’s side. Behind the couch, he heard Jackson give Stiles a kiss—if the sounds were anything to go by, the brunet returned it with fervor—and a quick hello. The tapping of keys resumed—though unaccompanied by the music this time, signaling that Stiles hadn’t put his headphones back in now that everyone was home—and Jackson’s footsteps trailed towards the bathroom. When the shower started, Scott turned his gaze from Isaac’s notes to the blond’s face, staring at him intently. After a minute of being watched, Isaac muttered, “Yes? What is it, Scott?” without looking away from his work.

“I love you, ‘Saac.”

Isaac snorted. “I love you, too, Scott. Any particular reason you’re telling me?”

Scott flashed a smile at his mate despite the fact that Isaac was still steadfastly focused on his studying.

“No reason. Just hadn’t said it in a bit and figured you should know.”

“Uh-huh. Well, as much as I enjoy hearing that—and you know I do—are you sure that this has nothing to do with Jackson snubbing your silent offer of shower sex?”

“Who’s having shower sex with whom, and why wasn’t I invited?” came Stiles’ voice from the table.

“No one, love,” Isaac responded, a smile evident in his voice, “Scott’s just pouting like a kicked puppy because Jackson didn’t want to a shower blowjob.”

“Who says that’s what was going to happen?” Scott questioned, well aware of how defensive he was being and the fact that his face was probably turning pink. “I might’ve just wanted to shower with him and keep him company and cheer him up. You never know!”

At that, Isaac finally turned his head towards Scott, arching a single, dark blond eyebrow.

“Oh really, Scott?” he asked, voice light and teasing, “Because, I think that, out of all of us, you have the biggest kink for shower sex. After all, let’s not forget the morning before finals first semester of freshman year, or how I had to fight you tooth and nail to have our first time be in the bedroom and not the bathroom, or that time the first week of sophomore year with Stiles—”

“Oh man, that was fun,” Stiles chimed in, “just like when Scott ‘accidentally’ organized a threesome in the shower a few weeks later—”

Scott sputtered, trying to form words.

“Oh come on, man, you asked me to ‘join you’ and then Jackson _just so happened_ to already be there? Yeah right. And what about the time when you tried to convince us to have a _foursome_ in the shower,” Stiles continued, “and we had to explain to you that, no, the human body is not meant to contort that way in such a small space.”

“Or,” Isaac picked, “that one time at the end of senior year in high school after the championship in the locker room—”

“Guys, stop!” Scott whined, face feeling like it was on fire

“Oh my god,” Stiles’ voice sounded muffled and echoed; presumably, he’d put his face in his hands, “and then Danny came in and found the four of us together and, Scott, man, you literally came on the spot, I mean, _seriously_ —”

“Yeah, you guys nearly ruined my friendship with him,” came Jackson’s voice, and Scott whipped his head around in surprise. He hadn’t heard the shower stop, but sure enough there stood Jackson, framed by the light from over the sink, wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts. His previous clothes were slung over his arm and shoulder. Despite the embarrassment that made him want to sink into the couch and never reappear, Scott was happy to see that the blond was at least smiling.

“Assholes,” Jackson added fondly, smirk lifting a corner of his mouth.

“Oh come on,” Stiles piped up, his own teasing smirk firmly in place, “you know he was just jealous that you were getting regular foursomes.”

“No, he was more upset that I hadn’t told him about, well, all of us. He thought I was cheating on you.” Jackson’s smirk dropped by a fraction as he said the words, the last part directed at Stiles. Scott wanted that carefree smile—okay, fine, _smirk_ , he thought to himself, but Jackson’s smiles were amazing, too; in fact, Scott would even go so far as to describe them as _awesome_ —back.

“But, to be fair,” Scott spoke up, clearing his throat to dislodge his embarrassment from earlier—this was more important, anyway, “we hadn’t even really talked about, well, telling anyone about _us_ yet.”

“True,” Jackson said, inclining his head in Scott’s direction as he moved towards the couch and tossed his clothes into a hamper at the end of the small hallway leading to the bathroom, “but that didn’t make him any less pissed.”

When Jackson reached the couch, Scott scooted over to let the blond settle in between himself and Isaac. The moment Jackson was settled, Scott flung his arms around the shorter blond and nosed at the pale collarbone, relishing the moment when Jackson shuddered happily beneath him and an almost inaudible sigh escaped his mate’s lips. Jackson smelled like the shampoo and body wash he loved so much, but still like that forest-field breeze; much to Scott’s delight, the scents of all the other people Jackson had interacted with that day had been (mostly) washed away.

“I still should’ve told him,” Jackson whispered, regret slowly mixing into the batch of scents Scott was taking in. Scott placed a kiss on the bottom of the blond’s neck—in the dip where it met his clavicle—and hummed softly, trying to convey to Jackson both that there wasn’t anything to be done about the past and a sense of comfort and solidarity. Isaac, however, was more vocal in his feelings.

“Alright,” the curly-haired beta muttered as he flipped his notebooks closed, the paper coming together with a muted slap, “before we start travelling down a road paved with unavoidable guilt and things we can’t change, how about we get to the real problem.”

Scott looked up from where he’d placed his ear above Jackson’s heart, trying to get closer to the dull thumping. The real problem?

“Don’t look so confused, Scott, you know what I’m talking about,” Isaac chided gently, gaze travelling up to Jackson. “Or have you forgotten the way Jackson smelled when he came in the front door?”

At Isaac’s words, Scott lifted his head slightly until his chin was resting on Jackson’s pale shoulder, casting his thoughts back. When he realized what Isaac was talking about, he felt his mouth open slightly, reflecting his shock at his own stupidity. How could he have forgotten?

“Oh,” he breathed, “right.”

“Uh, hey? Anyone wanna clue in the person without the lycanthropic nose, here?” Stiles asked pointedly from the table.

“When Jackson came in,” Isaac explained, gaze focused on Jackson where the shorter blond’s face was twisted and resolutely looking forward, “he smelled upset and sad. Not ‘I stubbed my toe’ kind of sad, more like ‘someone shot my puppy and ate it in front of me’ kind of sad. So, I think I speak for all of us when I ask, what happened?”

Jackson’s heartbeat sped up against Scott’s arm where it was draped across the blond’s chest.

“Do we really have to—” Jackson started, but Isaac calmly cut him off.

“Yes, Jackson, we do. Because this relationship is complicated enough already without us having a breakdown of communication. No jealousy, no locked doors, no secrets, remember?” Isaac turned his whole body towards Jackson and placed a hand on the shorter beta’s bare knee. “We _need_ to _talk_ to each other. Even when it hurts. _Especially_ when it hurts. So please, tell us: what happened today? Maybe we can help.”

Scott felt a whine seep out of him, and the way he could just see Jackson’s resolve crumble—the way the blond’s steel-blue eyes shifted to a near-silver gray, skin around the sockets tightening and relaxing at the same time in a series of twitches, jaw muscles working furiously on nothing until finally coming to a stop—drew another strangled noise from somewhere inside of him. He absolutely _hated_ seeing any of his mates in pain, whether emotional or physical. It was always worse when he knew that all he could do was sit and wait, basically doing _nothing_. Thank god for Isaac and his seemingly-magical ability to know exactly what to say.

Jackson took in a deep breath and exhaled noisily. Scott could hear the way it caught in the blond’s throat—could smell the moisture that was threatening to gather amidst pale eyelashes, but that Jackson was no doubt holding back by sheer force of will—but he decided to simply maintain his hold on his mate’s middle, not letting Jackson know he’d heard. And even though he knew that _Jackson_ knew that _he_ knew, Scott _also_ knew that his mate would appreciate the gesture. He laid his head back down over Jackson’s heart; he was aware of the fact that his hair was probably tickling the blond’s chest, but the need to comfort his mate outweighed such a negligible potential discomfort.

“One of my students complained to the Dean about me,” Jackson finally whispered after several moments of silence. Scott was about to speak up and remind the blond of the fact that other students had complained about his hard-ass, no-exceptions, no-coddling teaching style last semester and it hadn’t bothered him then, but then Jackson started speaking again, so he remained silent.

“And, I dunno, it wasn’t really the fact that she went over my head to do it—although that definitely pisses me off, let me tell you,” Jackson murmured with an almost subsonic growl, and Scott had to repress a smile at the bit of the Jackson he knew and loved leaking out from this sad shell, “but she… she—”

Jackson’s voice caught in his throat, and Scott looked up, alarmed at the way the blond’s heart rate suddenly spiked against his ear. There were actual tears gathered at the bottom of Jackson’s eyelids, but his pale eyebrows were drawn together in an expression that was a strange mix of forlorn and indignant.

“She saw me picking you up at the hospital, Scott,” the blond finally said, voice shaking as he looked down. Scott met his gaze, wishing he could just wave his hand and have the pain reflected there—the pain that Jackson will never allow further than his irises—disappear, even if he didn’t entirely understand the source.

“What do you mean, Jacks’?” Stiles asked. Scott heard the sound of the human’s laptop clicking shut followed closely by footfalls towards the couch. A few seconds later, Stiles’ scent fills Scott’s nose as a pale arm wraps itself around Jackson’s chest, forearm brushing Scott’s hair.

“She saw us kissing when I picked him up. She said that someone _like me_ wasn’t fit to be teaching anyone, let alone a class that’s half freshmen,” Jackson ground out.

In the silence that followed, Scott found that he could no longer hear Jackson’s heartbeat over the thudding of his own pulse in his ears. He could feel his eyes practically catch fire as they glowed, a growl seeping from his chest as he tried—and partially failed—to prevent his anger from getting to his wolf. As it was, he could practically feel it pawing at the back of his sternum, claws scraping and scratching, begging to be let out and take revenge upon the person who _dared_ to hurt his mate in this way.

“That _cunt_.”

Scott jerked his head up in surprise when he realized that the words came from Isaac and not his own mouth. The curly-haired beta’s gaze was on some point far beyond where Scott and Stiles were wrapped around Jackson, eyes glowing like Scott’s, seeming to be surrounded by a fiery halo as they illuminated Isaac’s eyelashes with their light. Scott could hear his boyfriend’s quickened heartbeat and his elevated breathing, the sound slightly ragged, and the spicy scent of _unbridled rage_ —so unfamiliar from Isaac, who was far and away the most level-headed out of the four of them—was practically palpable.

Just as Scott thought he might have to intervene and calm Isaac down, Stiles beat him to it, moving a hand to rest on Isaac’s shoulder and gently squeezing. That seemed to be enough to snap Isaac out of wherever he’d gone, as the blond’s eyes instantly shifted back to blue, and the claws that’d been scratching at Isaac’s jeans retracted with an almost audible _snick_. The rage, however, remained, even as the taller beta’s laser-like focus shifted to Jackson’s face. A quick glance up showed that Jackson was just as surprised by their boyfriend’s actions as Scott was. Stiles’ face was behind Jackson’s neck, but Scott could hear the soft rustle of the brunet’s lips as they planted soft kisses among the short hairs at the base of Jackson’s skull..

“She has no right to say that,” Isaac continued as if he _hadn’t_ almost completely wolfed out, and Scott decided that now was _not_ the time to bring that up. Later.

“I mean, you’ve taught the class before, Jackson,” Isaac was probably using Jackson’s full name to make the blond hear him, Scott reasoned, but it still sounded odd to his ears, “and your students gave you fucking _amazing_ reviews—didn’t you even get that one kid who said that you were the best professor they had that semester? So who the fuck does she think she is?”

“Plus,” Stiles piped up, “you got your Ph.D., like, six years after high school. That’s almost fucking unheard-of, dude. It took me four years just to get a Comp Sci major, and by that time you were already a third of the way through your freaking _doctoral_ work. If anything, you’re _overqualified_ to teach that fucking class.”

When Jackson opened his mouth to speak, Scott could _smell_ the despair—the disbelief it hinted at—still lingering on the blond’s skin, so he spoke up before Jackson could get anything out.

“Jacks’.”

He’d guessed correctly; when Scott used the nickname they’d all picked up from Stiles—why was it always Stiles that came up with the nicknames, anyway?—Jackson clamped his mouth shut with an audible click of teeth and a clenching of muscles on the sides of his jaw, breathing heavily and eyes practically pleading.

“We love you, okay? We don’t care what some stupid girl who doesn’t know anything about anything says,” he pulled back slightly to look Jackson level in the eyes, taking the blond’s hands in his own. “ _We_ know you’re amazing. The fact that you’re dating us? It isn’t what made all that stuff Stiles said happen. That was you. All you. Not us, not you because you’re with us, _you_. And we all love you for that. So let her say whatever she wants: let her be hateful and mean, because, at the end of the day, she doesn’t know you and she doesn’t deserve to.”

And with that, he leaned forward and let his lips brush, feather-light, against the corner of Jackson’s mouth. He resisted the urge to croon in triumph as he felt the blond’s lips moving—barely, but moving nonetheless—to meet him. True, Jackson wasn’t completely calmed, nor was he back to his usual happy-go-grumpy self, but Scott knew that, between himself, Isaac, and Stiles, they would manage. True, it would probably take several hours of cuddling, a healthy cry, and a whole lot of talking, but they would make it. Together.

It was what they’d always done.

And it was what they would always do.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Isaac moaned at the feeling of Scott around him, the brunet’s ass clenching his cock like a vise. Scott hooked his heels behind Isaac’s ass and pulled him deeper, grinding himself onto Isaac’s length and whimpering before letting up on some of the pressure, allowing Isaac to resume his punishing rhythm.

“Oh fuck, Isaac, _fuck, Isaac_ , fuckfuck _fuck_ I’m gonna—” Scott breathed out, voice ragged and _broken_ , and then he was _screaming_ and coming and _squeezing_ and—

And Isaac followed him into oblivion, biting into Scott’s neck hard enough that the brunet whimpered, spent cock twitching against Isaac’s stomach.

They lay together, panting first into each other’s shoulders, then each other’s mouths as Isaac propped himself up on an elbow and started laconically dropping open-mouthed kisses onto Scott’s lips. Isaac tasted Scott’s tongue as it entered his mouth and mapped out the familiar territory, and he swiped his own tongue back along the brunet’s, enjoying the shiver he felt run through Scott’s entire body. Eventually, though, Isaac pulled back and eased himself out of Scott with a wince, Scott’s body clenching on his overly sensitive flesh. He sprawled at his boyfriend’s side, arms coming to wrap around the shorter teen with a sigh. Scott’s hands came up and started running through Isaac’s curls, and Isaac let some of the tension building in his shoulders leak out of him, head falling onto Scott’s shoulder. However, the tension building in the air—in spite of the mind-blowing sex they’d just had—was suddenly something so palpable that Isaac was sure he could feel it pulling and pushing at his skin until it felt three sizes too small.

Because no matter how tightly he held Scott or how much they said ‘I love you’, something was wrong.

Something was missing.

And Isaac had no clear idea of what it was.

At first Isaac had thought it was because Jackson and Stiles were both still distant at school. Even now, even four months after _That Night_ —for some reason, it’d been given capital letters in Isaac’s mind—the two couples had barely exchanged more than a few stilted, forced conversations at school. They no longer sat together at lunch—that had been forced conversation number one—nor did they sit together in classes. Isaac knew that it was harder on Scott, because Stiles had been his best friend for _years_ before the hyperactive brunet and Jackson had become Isaac’s best friends.

But that couldn’t be it. After all, wasn’t like—barring that one exception—Jackson or Stiles were involved in Isaac and Scott’s sex life or, really, their relationship. And yet, as Isaac stretched his memory back further, he couldn’t think of a single thing that’d changed. Except for the sudden lack of Stiles and Jackson.

Still, it didn’t make _sense_ : they’d agreed the morning after that everything was fine—that things weren’t going to change. Hell, Isaac thought to himself, even he’d agreed to that. But then, walking into that squat brick building the next day, he had been hit by what felt like an icy wave of _reality_ : the night before hadn’t been something _normal_ —it wasn’t what people were _supposed to do_. So whenever he’d tried to bring it up with Scott or the others, images of what had happened—of what they’d _done_ —would flash through his mind, and his throat would feel like it was being compressed by a rusty gauntlet.

“Isaac,” Scott mumbled into the air above their intertwined bodies, “we need to talk.”

The tension crept back into Isaac’s shoulders no matter how hard he tried to force it away.

“About what?”

Scott rolled onto his side so that he was facing Isaac, the hand that was in Isaac’s hair pulling back to prop up the brunet’s head. He fixed Isaac with a _look_ that had Isaac’s heart melting at the sheer weight of the _uncertainty_ there.

“About us.”

A weight in Isaac’s chest fell down into his stomach.

“This isn’t right,” Scott continued before bringing his free arm up to cup Isaac’s face. There was a high-pitched noise—almost like a pained whine—pervading the room, beating at Isaac’s senses. It took him a few seconds to realize that it was _him_. His chest was tightening painfully, fire building there, and his vision started to narrow until all he could see was Scott’s face, then Scott’s eyes, then—

Scott’s eyes flew wide—Isaac would’ve probably described the motion as funny if he were thinking clearly—and his lips were forming words but Isaac couldn’t hear them over the sound of his heart _pounding_ in his ears, over the silence that was pressing at his—

The words ‘Isaac, _breathe_ ’ filtered through the back of his mind, and Isaac sucked in a breath. The blackness—the silence—receded by the smallest increment, and he gulped in another few breaths, suddenly aware that his lungs were burning from oxygen deprivation. As sensations returned, he became aware his surroundings again: the stricken look plastered on Scott’s face, the words that poured in a soothing litany from the brunet’s lips; the feeling of Scott’s fingertips as they moved gently over his trembling limbs.

“No, Isaac,” Scott whispered—expression earnest—once Isaac felt the tremors slowing, “no, not like that, _never_ like that. There’s nothing wrong with _us_ , okay? I love you. I’m not going anywhere. Never doubt that, alright?”

And it was those words, more than anything, that made the erratic beating of Isaac’s heart and his tortured, gasping breaths slow to something approaching normality.

“Then,” Isaac gulped, “then what do you mean?”

Scott’s brows came together almost imperceptibly, the left corner of his mouth turning down for a fraction of a second.

“I mean,” he intoned, clearly picking his words carefully, brown eyes locked on Isaac’s blues, “that something feels... off. It’s not that we’re wrong, there’s just something—”

“Missing,” Isaac whispered, and Scott’s eyes widened as the brunet sat up.

“Isaac,” he murmured, almost reverently, “you feel it too?”

Isaac nodded, pulling himself into a sitting position across for Scott, near-panic attack from a moment ago all but forgotten. The sheets tangled around his ankles as he maneuvered around the bed, but he paid them no mind, instead remaining focused on Scott. There were words he _needed_ to say, if only he knew what they were. He tried anyway.

“I don’t understand it. I love you and I love being with you, and it’s _amazing_ , but I almost feel like… Like… Fuck, I don’t know, like—”

“Like we’re just two pieces to a more complex puzzle. We fit together perfectly, but we don’t form a complete picture.”

Isaac blinked.

“That was, um, surprisingly poetic, Scott.”

“Shut up!” A smile and a light punch to Isaac’s arm. “I can be poetic and stuff if I want. Besides, was I right or not?”

“No no,” Isaac answered, “it was right. So I guess that just leaves the question—”

“—what’s the missing piece,” Scott finished for him, “or who?”

“Well, I mean,” Isaac started, words coming out slowly as his mind raced, “what’s missing?”

He held Scott’s gaze for a moment the seemed to stretch out for eternity, possibilities and ‘what-if’s surging through his brain; but then, Isaac was hit with a wave of clarity. Everything else in his mind receded except for one, simple, undeniable answer, and Isaac felt as if he’d been trying to see through mud this entire time. It was so obvious. It’d been staring him in the face this entire time. Hell, it was all he could think about. He felt like he was at the edge of a precipice, poised to fall over with the slightest of pushes, but Isaac decided, _to hell with it_ , threw caution to the wind, and jumped.

“Jackson and Stiles,” Isaac said at the same moment that Scott answered, “Stiles and Jackson.”

The words strung out between them, crystal-clear and _bright_ , the clarity that Isaac had experienced coloring the sounds with its vibrancy. Isaac could feel his eyes heating as they shifted yellow, and Scott’s did the same across from him. His wolf stirred restlessly, and Isaac was overcome with a sudden _need_ the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since he and Scott got together. He didn’t know how long they just stared at each other—it felt like hours, days, weeks even—but eventually Scott’s eyes shifted back to their normal, deep brown, and Isaac felt his own eyes cool to their usual sky blue.

Isaac was silent, letting it all sink in.

“Oh my god,” Scott whispered, the moment shattering, “shit, does this mean— what do we— how does that even—?”

“I don’t know,” Isaac answered, “but I think we need to have a talk with Jackson and Stiles—”

“Stiles and Jackson,” Scott interjected, a child-like grin crossing his features despite the weight of their words—a grin that never failed to make Isaac’s heart swell.

“—Jackson and Stiles,” Isaac continued as if Scott hadn’t spoken, unable to resist the smile that stretched over his face at his boyfriend’s antics, “as soon as possible.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Stiles woke up.

As soon as he did, a wave of pain overtook him, and he groaned unhappily. ‘ _Did we get too rough last night or something?_ ’ he wondered to himself, but immediately dismissed the thought; there was no way any of his mates would harm him, _especially_ not like that. Hell, if anything, they were sometimes _too_ careful in bed: there were times when Stiles just wanted to _feel it_ the morning after. However, this felt nothing like those few times Stiles had managed to coax one of his boyfriends into giving him one such morning, convincing them that, yes, he was going to be fine, no, he was not a werewolf, but, yes, he could still heal just fine as a human thank you very much.

No, something felt wrong.

Something felt _very_ wrong.

The bed felt wrong.

The air smelled wrong.

Something was stabbing him in the arm.

Something else was crushing his hands.

Why couldn’t he feel the warmth of his mates around him?

Why was it so dark?

Why—

Stiles’ eyes flung themselves open, and he winced at the sudden invasion of light that brought pinpricks of moisture to the corners of his vision, blinking rapidly.

“Why can’t I feel my legs?”

The question flew from his lips, sounding strained and raspy even to his own ears. The pressure crushing his left hand increased.

“Oh my god, he’s awake.”

He knew that voice. How did he know that voice? It was tantalizingly familiar, like a memory from a dream: fading and blurring into nothingness the more the mind tries to bring it into focus. He tried to look down, the direction from which the voice seemed to have come, but found he couldn’t move his head. He couldn’t move his head. _Why couldn’t he move his head_?

The pressure on his left hand vanished and a pair of blue _so blue glowing blue_ eyes gazed down into his own.

“Stiles, it’s me, you’re okay, we’ve got you.”

“Jackson?”

“Yeah,” the blond above him swallowed thickly, “yeah, it’s me. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. Scott and Isaac are here, too.”

Within seconds of Jackson saying their names, Scott and Isaac had both moved into Stiles’ field of vision, Isaac—it had to be Isaac, he was the only one on Stiles’ right—releasing the hand Jackson hadn’t been holding. They all looked a mess, with dark bags under their eyes and hair sticking out at odd angles, unkempt. He felt something in his chest catch at the sight.

“Wh—what happened? Where am I? Why—” his voice caught in his throat, panic forming a lump he had to swallow before continuing, “why can’t I feel my legs or move my head? What’s going on? The last thing I remember…”

Stiles paused, searching his memory.

“The last thing I remember is finding that damn book on SNOBAL in the library for my Forgotten Languages class. After that,” if he could’ve moved his head, he would’ve shrugged his shoulders; instead, he added, “nothing.”

“You got hurt,” Scott explained, voice clinical but wavering, and Stiles could practically hear his boyfriend trying to use his lessons from nursing school to keep himself calm, “someone brought their kids to the library while they were studying, and they were horsing around in the stacks. They,” Scott paused, pain etching itself in his features, and Stiles wished he could somehow reach up and kiss that pain away, “they knocked over two shelves. One knocked _you_ over and hit your head pretty hard, so they have your neck in a brace to keep your head still, but the other shelf…”

Tears welled up in Scott’s eyes, and he looked away. Jackson had an arm crossed over his chest, expression stony and unfocused. Isaac had tears running down his face, but he held Stiles’ gaze; he reached out, placing a hand on Stiles’ cheek.

“They don’t know if you’ll walk again, Stiles.”

“W—what?”

“It… it came down right on your spine. They said they wouldn’t be able to tell if you’d be able to walk until… until you woke up, and you said—”

“—that I couldn’t feel my legs,” Stiles finished. Isaac nodded. The blond started to say something else—it sounded vaguely like “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Stiles”—but everything suddenly seemed so far away and muted, as if he had balls of cotton stuffed in his ears. Isaac had apparently sat back down, because Stiles could barely see the freakishly tall beta’s curls in his peripheral vision, though he could feel Isaac gripping his hand gently. Words— _‘It’ll be okay, we’ll figure this out, we’ll think of something, everything’s gonna be fine, I promise’_ —filtered into his ears, but Stiles pushed them out almost vindictively. What good was he now? If he couldn’t walk, he couldn’t work—okay, that wasn’t _entirely_ true, but he somehow doubted his bosses in student security would really let him stay on if he was confined to a wheelchair. He wouldn’t be able to cook, wouldn’t be able to clean up after himself; wouldn’t be able to do _anything_ by himself anymore. He’d be dependent upon his mates for the rest of his life.

It wasn’t until some time later—it could’ve been two minutes or two hours for all Stiles knew—that he caught a few words of a conversation between Scott and Jackson in the background. Specifically, the word ‘Bite’. He wrenched his hand out of Isaac’s grip despite the way his whole body spasmed in protest.

“No,” Stiles tried to yell, but it came out more like a pained grunt. “No, you are not turning me into a werewolf over this.”

“But Stiles,” came Scott’s voice, and Stiles could practically _feel_ the pain in the brunet’s voice, sharp and twisted like barbed wire digging into his flesh, “what else can we do?”

“We can wait, damn it,” Stiles barked back, “people come back from this stuff all the time, Scott.”

“Stiles, please,” and that was Jackson, “for the love of whatever you consider holy, _please_ just _consider_ —”

Stiles made a snappish gesture with his hands, and Jackson’s mouth shut with an audible click of teeth. There was a soft, huffing noise in the background, and it took Stiles a moment to realize that it was crying—no, not crying, _sobbing_ —and that it was Scott.

“ _Please_ —” Scott started, and Stiles almost caved at how _desperate_ Scott’s voice was. His mates _knew_ how he felt about this, and the fact that they were even discussing it at all almost made his voice catch in his throat. However, he charged forward, cutting the beta off.

“No. We are not having this conversation. _No_. I’m perfectly happy being the only human in this relationship and I intend to keep it that way as long as possible, so you can all your Biting-talk and— _oh my fucking god that hurts_.”

In an instant, all three betas were crowded around him, but he could hardly see them through the pain.

Pain was a mild word for what he was experiencing. It lanced through his entire body, seeming to shred his innards and set them on fire before coiling around every inch of him, _squeezing_ and _slicing_ and _burning_. It poured out of him and smothered him, pressing down until he couldn’t breathe, until he felt like his ribs were going to break and his eyeballs were going to pop. Stiles screamed for it to stop make it stop please _for the love of god make it stop_ , but the only answer he received was a redoubling of everything and _why wasn’t he unconscious already_?

Then, as quickly as it had come, the pain receded. Not entirely, but he could see and breathe again. He simply lay in the unfamiliar hospital bed—panting and staring up at the ceiling, dimly aware of his mates crowded around him—before he realized something.

“My foot hurts.”

Isaac’s eyes widened, Scott took in a deep, sudden breath, and Jackson muttered, “what—”

“My foot hurts!” Stiles practically yelled, elation making his chest feel ten times lighter and chasing away the lingering softness and weight of his sadness. Then, he felt his eyes widen.

“Oh my god, my foot _really_ hurts, _jesus_ , can I maybe get something for this? Like holy _fuck_ _now_?”

Scott, of course—his little nurse-in-training, Stiles thought with an inward smirk—ran out of the door and started shouting for various people. _They probably should’ve done that as soon as I woke up_ , Stiles thought a bit ruefully, but he couldn’t find it within himself to _actually_ be upset with his mates. After all, he didn’t yet know how long they’d been sitting there, waiting, wondering if he was every going to wake up (almost thirty hours, he’d find out later).

As Scott’s voice carried down the hall, Isaac and Jackson both moved to grasp Stiles’ hands again. He felt his pain being drawn into their bodies like a thorned, angry serpent being dragged out of the ground, thrashing the whole way. Stiles sighed at the feeling, relishing in the way the pain slithered out of his foot and up his leg, leaving a trail of fire behind that whispered, ‘ _It’s alright, it’s okay, everything’s going to be fine_.’ Or maybe that was Jackson; the blond was back to hovering inches from Stiles’ face, lips tracing sounds into Stiles’ skin.

It didn’t matter.

For the first time since waking up, Stiles smiled and allowed himself to believe the words.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Sitting at the couch’s end with Scott’s head pillowed in his lap, Isaac can’t help the smile that breaks out on his face when he hears Jackson’s footsteps approaching the apartment. The shorter blond had always walked quietly, steps precise and measured and predator-soft, but Isaac has always been able to hear him coming. Jackson’s heartbeat also filters into his awareness, so strong and steady Isaac could’ve used it as a stopwatch if he wanted to—of course, as if Jackson would allow any part of himself to be anything less that the pinnacle of perfection. The heartbeat and footsteps come to a stop outside the apartment’s front door, and it’s the sound of the key sliding home and the deadbolt scraping out of its place in the doorframe that has Scott’s head turning from where Isaac’s fingers are weaving through his hair.

Scott always likes to say that Isaac’s senses are the keenest out of the three of them, but Isaac knows for a fact that isn’t true. Scott’s always been able to somehow _know_ things about all three of them, such as when they’re angry or have had a bad day or are hiding a secret—some kind of lycanthropic sixth sense that Isaac thinks must be similar to a dog’s ability to know when its owner is upset or in pain. What’s more, Isaac knows that Scott’s dulled senses are the way they are by choice: the beta had spent so long in his early days learning to _not_ notice what was around him that he’d never been able to re-learn how to use them at their full capacity.

Another thing Isaac has come to learn about his boyfriend is that Scott loves nothing more than to be pet. There is nothing that calms the brunet faster than running a hand through his unruly waves and scratching his scalp with blunt fingernails. This, Isaac reasons to himself, is why—as excited as he’s been for Jackson to come home the entire evening—it’d taken Scott so long to notice that their last boyfriend was finally home. Scott whined lightly when Isaac ceased his ministrations, the change in position having craned Isaac’s wrist at an odd angle. After a second, Scott lays back down and pushes his head back into Isaac’s hand, prompting a chuckle from the blond.

“Y’know, if you paid more attention,” Isaac lightly chastises the brunet, speaking over the sounds of Stiles banging around in the kitchen and the Winchester brothers arguing on-screen, “you probably would’ve heard him about fifteen seconds earlier.”

Scott simply tilts his head to stick his tongue out at Isaac, turning his gaze back to the screen and snuggling his upper body into the blond’s lap with a contented grin on his face.

When the door opens, Isaac is almost forcibly thrown back to that night just over a year ago. Jackson smells like the same mix of worry, frustration, and sadness. Added to the mix, however, is a sense of bone-deep weariness that comes across in the strong scent of aggravation undercut by a steely tang of resignation. He feels the same sense of foreboding that had overtaken him that same night, and—just like before—fights it down; after all, it will help nothing if he makes _his_ distress at his _mate’s_ distress known: right now, Jackson is the one who needs comfort. In Isaac’s arms, Scott squirms slightly before settling, worry and confusion warring on his face.

Jackson tromps into the living room before setting his bag against the wall, and Isaac’s heart almost breaks at the downtrodden look in the shorter blond’s eyes.

The TV, however, chooses that exact moment to play Jackson’s favorite scene from this particular episode: a perky, redheaded saleswoman, trying to pitch to the brothers onscreen, utters the line, “…well, we accept homeowners of any race, religion, color, or sexual orientation.”

Jackson’s head snaps up, recognition flashing through his features. For the scantest of seconds, Isaac hears the other beta’s heart stutter by a half-beat, and it takes all the restraint the taller blond has not to jump off the couch and whoop in joy because, yes, this was clearly an excellent idea. Scott, however, has no such inhibitions, and propels himself over the back of the couch with a grin on his face.

“Is—is that—?” Jackson manages to get out before a very enthusiastic brunet is pulling him around the couch. Scott wastes no time in practically tossing Jackson into Isaac’s waiting arms, and Isaac hums in contentment and nods against the side of Jackson’s neck as he wraps his arms around the wolf on top of him. He lazily trails his teeth, lips, and tongue up and down the exposed flesh, delighting in the way Jackson shivers under his touch.

“Yup,” Scott finally answers the half-formed question, face positively glowing with happiness. The brunet wastes no time before folding himself over the shorter blond’s back and leaving a trail of kisses down the back of his neck, effectively sandwiching Jackson between the two scheming werewolves. Jackson groans, a wave of lust coming off of him, and Isaac allows himself to get lost in the heady scent for a moment as he tightens his grip on the body above him. However, a moment later, Isaac sees another flash of recognition wash across Jackson’s features. His steel-blue eyes fly open, lust fading as quickly as it’d come, and he looks up to where Stiles is grinning at their ‘puppy pile’ on the couch.

“Is,” Jackson starts, sniffing at the air experimentally, “is Stiles—?”

“Yes,” Isaac answers, cutting off his boyfriend’s words with a soft kiss to the corner of his open mouth, “but hush. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“For you,” Scott adds.  Isaac can see his fingers deftly working themselves into Jackson’s tense shoulders, and shivers sympathetically: he knows firsthand how damn skilled Scott is with his hands.

“And you two put on—?”

“Your favorite season of Supernatural, yes,” Isaac answers patiently, kissing the other corner of the pale lips above him.

“And my favorite episode, too?”

“Well, we guessed on that part,” Scott admits with a chuckle, and Isaac can hear the mischievous, apologetic twinkle the brunet’s eyes have probably acquired in his voice, “but we figured it was probably this one or the one with the ‘two queens’ kid at the motel.”

Jackson’s sharp features practically melt as a boyish grin breaks out on his features. Isaac feels his own heart skip a beat and the air get caught in his lungs because, wow, even after all this time the sight of Jackson’s smile still manages to steal his breath away and make something inside of him turn into warm, gooey mush. Jackson, however, quickly hides his face in the crook of Isaac’s neck, though Isaac can still feel the smile against his skin.

“All because I said I had a bad day?”

Isaac looks up, making eye contact with Scott—yup, he was right, Scott’s honey-brown eyes are _totally_ twinkling as he beams in his adorably lopsided way down at Isaac—now that Jackson’s head is no longer in the way. He just _knows_ that he’s probably got the stupidest grin on his face right now. Somehow, he can’t bring himself to care.

“Yup.”

Jackson murmurs something into Isaac’s shoulder that sounds suspiciously like, “You didn’t have to.”

“Yes we did, Jacks’,” Isaac murmurs back, knowing the two werewolves piled on top of him can hear him just fine, “we’re your _mates_. It is our _job_ to cheer you up after a shit day.”

“Really?” Scott jokes, “I don’t remember that being anywhere in the paperwork.”

“Gotta read the fine print, Scott,” Isaac chides with a smile, pulling Jackson tighter against his chest for a moment to make sure the blond knows he’s joking. Just to be sure, he adds, “Not like it really matters, anyway. You know you love making this sad lump smile just as much as I do. After all, his smiles _are_ quite breathtaking.”

Scott snorts. “Not to mention that, y’know, _we love you_ , Jacks’. And we don’t like it when you’re unhappy because, well, you’re unhappy when you’re unhappy and that isn’t you being happy.”

Isaac mentally shakes his head at his mate’s both overly-complicated and overly-simplistic way of looking at the situation, and feels his heart swell in response. If the way Jackson’s breath has just hitched is anything to go by, his heart is doing its own share of swelling, too.

“So, no,” Isaac finishes, “we didn’t _have_ to, not really. But we all _wanted_ to.”

There are a few moments of silence during which Isaac counts the heartbeats of the blond in his arms, skating his fingers over Jackson’s ribcage until he can feel the gentle pulsing-pounding beneath his fingers in addition to hearing it. Isaac contents himself with watching Scott skillfully work from one spot to the next on Jackson’s back, massaging out any tension he finds there. Eventually, it’s Jackson who speaks up.

“Thank you,” he sighs softly, groaning lightly as Scott presses into what was apparently a particularly nasty knot.

“Nothing to thank us for, love,” Isaac whispers, toying with the hair at the nape of Jackson’s neck and tugging ever-so-gently until the blond lifts his head. Isaac plants his lips on Jackson’s—fully, this time—and smirks as his mate moans above him.

Despite wanting to deepen the kiss, he pulls back and tugs Jackson into a position more conducive to their original plan. He turns the blond until Jackson is snuggled up against his chest, a hand wrapped around his mate’s chest until it rests just above the heartbeat there. Scott, meanwhile, apparently gets the memo and slots himself back-to-front into Jackson’s chest, pulling an arm around to rest on his stomach.

On screen, a woman screams as she is attacked in her shower by spiders. Isaac feels Jackson tense slightly, whispering, “I never did like that they killed her off. I liked her.”

“I know, love,” Isaac whispers in Jackson’s ear, smiling despite himself, “it’s because she shipped Sam and Dean just like you do.”

Isaac can feel Jackson’s whole body heat as his face colors.

“Shut up, gigantor,” Jackson tosses back, no heat in the words, and Isaac actually finds himself smiling at the pseudo-insult that had—at some point—become Jackson’s pet name for him, “just watch the episode and cheer me up, damnit.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this is unbeta'd, I'd appreciate any feedback anyone gives me, especially if you spot any pesky typos or word-usage issues or OOC-ness or anything, as I looked this over myself several times but I'd imagine that, since I wrote it, it's very easy for my eyes to slide over errors as if they're not there. 
> 
> The next part will be up next Friday, though whether it's beta'd or not depends on whether or not my beta is still busy (it's not her fault and she's really awesome I swear but Real Life takes precedence to fic)
> 
> Anyway, as always, feedback in general is welcomed and very much appreciated. I hope you guys enjoyed, and thank you for reading.


	5. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument over dinner, memories and their consequences, a date of distraction, a talk between friends, a dance with jealousy, and everything goes to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not Friday for another ten hours but I got impatient okay? xD
> 
> WARNING. This chapter is significantly darker than the ones that have come before it. It has mentions of suicide/attempted suicide in it, albeit when in an altered state of mind. If this is triggering for you, then I advise you to skip the second scene in this chapter. 
> 
> You all can thank [Beej](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/5566494) and [GStarRoss](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/5558445) for the fifth scene in this chapter. It was completely unplanned and not present in any part of the story until last Saturday when I wrote it in about an hour once I figured out what I wanted to do with it. So if it seems unpolished and a little, ah, jumpy or anything? That'd be why. Sorry. But I couldn't resist, haha. 
> 
> Finally, this chapter is also unbeta'd (my beta appears to be missing... I hope she's okay D': But alas, writing must continue), so any mistakes or eccentricities are my own.

“No, Stiles, it’s not happening.”

The brunet in question felt his brows pull together, frustration an ugly, flammable weight that drifted circles his stomach.

“Jacks’,” he ground out, trying to restrain his anger so that it didn’t bleed into his voice too much, “I don’t really have a choice, here. I need—”

“You _always_ have a choice!” Jackson shouted back, and the frustration caught spark and roared to blazing life. Stiles was sure that, had he been a werewolf, his eyes would’ve been blazing gold: twin stars that punctuated the rage in his too-level-too-calm voice.

“No, _Jackson_ , I don’t have a choice,” he growled, and the blond standing across the table from him—dinner forgotten between them—jerked back at the tone and the use of his full name. While Stiles couldn’t have said that he was the last one to ever get angry in an argument or the least likely of them to lash out, he knew that he was the one his boyfriends considered to always be rational and in control—until, that was, something pushed him over the edge. Something like, say, the conversation he and Jackson were having right now.

“You will take me to the hospital tomorrow to make sure my immunizations are up to date because I need proof that they actually are _and_ because I need a recent physical on file so that I can start work at my new _job_. You will do this because I _asked_ _you_ to do it because I _knew_ you would have the biggest problem with it and would worry yourself to death otherwise. I could just as easily—hell, I could probably _much more easily_ —get Scott to do it, but I’m asking you _as a favor to you_. One way or another, this is going to happen.”

His words rang through the air and left silence in their wake. Jackson slowly took his seat, gaze shifting downward until it locked on his plate, expression both mollified and bordering on upset. Stiles allowed himself to consider the fact that Jackson wasn’t running away a small victory: the blond had never taken being told what to do very well. The human sighed, rubbing his hands over his face before he looked back up at the beta across from him. On either side of the square table, Scott and Isaac were wide-eyed and remaining completely silent, barely moving as if they were afraid of being dragged into the conversation.

“Look,” Stiles breathed, softening his tone, “I know you don’t like hospitals. After everything that happened last year with your dad, and then me right after, I get it, okay?”

“I sense a ‘but’ after that,” Jackson mumbled to his plate.

“But we wouldn’t have been able to pay off all those hospital bills if your parents hadn’t helped, Jacks. As it stands, we have no insurance and none of us work a full-time job to get it or have the time to even _get_ a full-time job. Except me.”

Jackson’s head jerked up, and Stiles didn’t need an enhanced sense of smell to know that Jackson was livid, the blond’s eyes glowing bright blue.

“Really, Stiles? This is about _insurance_?”

It wasn’t the words—the scant few that there were—so much as the _way_ Jackson said them than broke Stiles’ resolve to spare his mate’s feelings. Because for the love of all that was holy he’d been _trying so damn hard_ and why did Jackson always have to be _so difficult_? He pushed back from the table and stood abruptly; he knew he was being overly dramatic and was essentially mimicking what Jackson had done not two minutes ago but damn it he couldn’t find it in him to really care at the moment.

“No, _Jackson_ , this is not about _insurance_ ,” he tried to infuse every measure of his derision into the one word, “this is about me not mooching off of the three of you anymore now that we’ve all graduated. This is about me trying to _give_ something to this relationship rather than taking and taking and _taking_ all the damn time. This is about me doing the one little thing little ol’ human me can do to _make things better for us_. I’m not on a career track like you and Isaac. I wasn’t handed a job by my major like Scott. For the past _three months_ I have done _nothing_. Nothing but _sit_ and _think_ and _worry_ just how long it’ll take you all to throw me out for being _useless_. And finally I get a job offer and, yeah, it’s at the library—”

“The same library where a bookcase fell on you and you almost got paralyzed,” Jackson interjected, but Stiles continued speaking over him.

“—and yes I am aware that it’s the _very same_ library where I had my accident last year, but they’re willing to cut me a deal with insurance so that I can cover _all_ of you as my partners, not just myself or me plus one. So for fuck’s sake Jackson do you really want to deny me this one chance to actually _do something for you three_ for a change?”

There was a beat of stunned silence during which the only sound was Stiles’ heavy breathing, all the anger, the frustration, having flown out of him in a rush. He sat back down heavily, resting his elbows on the table and his face in his hands.

“Wait, what?” It was Scott who eventually broke the silence. “All four of us are gonna be on your plan? But, isn’t it kinda pointless to have us on it?”

On Stiles’ other side, Isaac simply rolled his eyes and kicked Scott under the table—drawing a sharp gasp from the other brunet—before turning to Stiles.

“Why didn’t you tell us you felt that way? You know we’d never throw you out, right? We love you. And we just want you to be happy. All of us.” The last part was said with a very pointed look in Jackson’s direction.

“I, it,” Stiles stuttered, “I know it’s stupid, okay? And I—”

“It’s not stupid,” Isaac interjected softly.

“And I know,” Stiles continued, trying to ignore the little spark of light that welled up in him at Isaac’s words—at his support—so that he could get the rest of this out, “I know that you guys wouldn’t _actually_ throw me out, alright? But I just, I _hate_ feeling _useless_ and I hate knowing that I’m not contributing anything.”

Something warm enclosed Stiles’ right hand under the table, and he glanced down to see it was Scott trying to entwine their fingers. The brunet, however, was failing spectacularly in adorkable Scott fashion, not quite grasping (‘ _Ha ha brain_ ,’ he thought to himself with an inward grimace, ‘ _grasping._ ’) the idea that they were at an absolutely horrible angle to be holding hands. It wasn’t until Stiles chuckled softly to himself at how damn silly his mate was being and Scott fucking _grinned_ at him that he realized he’d been manipulated.

“That was cheating, Scott,” he whined, mouth pulling down into a frown as he tugged gently on his hand. His mate just shrugged and continued to smile at him, slotting their fingers together like matching pieces of a puzzle and giving Stiles’ hand a squeeze.

“Cheered you up, didn’t it?”

Stiles grudgingly allowed his own smile to return, shaking his head in exasperation. However, when he caught sight of Jackson’s face—still drawn and worried—he felt as the smile cracked and fell. On Stiles’ left, Isaac looked between the two of them and sighed, frustration evident in the sound.

“Jackson, Stiles is going to do this,” the taller blond said, his tone brokering no argument, “and he wants you to help him. If he wants to work at the library, then that’s ultimately his business. You’ve made your objections known, but, honestly, if Stiles is comfortable working there, then I think we should respect that decision because _he’s_ the one that got hurt there.

“But you,” Isaac added, turning to Stiles, “also need to understand that Jackson has every right as your mate to object. You _know_ he has bad memories of the hospital, and I understand that that’s why you asked him to go with you: so that he wouldn’t freak out at you being there. But he cares about you. We all do. And we worry about you. It was just a year ago that the three of us were punched in the face with the fact that, unlike us, you’re _human_ and you don’t heal as fast as we do. And I’m sorry if that gets on your nerves—I know it does—but we can’t stop, Stiles. If you weren’t here, if something happened to you…”

Isaac trailed off and looked across the table at Scott, the brunet’s face now somber. Under the table, Scott’s fingers tightened their grip. Across from Stiles, Jackson made a low whining noise in his throat as his eyes flew up and locked onto Stiles with a laser-like, pleading-filled focus.

“I don’t know what we’d do if we didn’t have you,” Isaac finished.

“I understand,” Stiles whispered, “but I still have to do this. The plan we’d have is really restrictive about where we can go for stuff like this, and the hospital is the only place nearby that takes it. And I really want this job. So…”

At some point he’d found himself looking down, unable to hold his mates’ collective gaze. His free hand had started toying with his fork, fingertips tracing the reflective metal. However, when his words caught in his throat, he looked back up.

“Please? Help me do this?”

Stiles could practically see the two sides as they warred in Jackson’s head. He knew that the shorter blond, on one hand, wanted to protect him from what the werewolf perceived as a threat to his mate. However, on the other hand, Stiles knew that Jackson respected the fact that they were all different and were ultimately their own person—it was, in an oblique sort of way, part of their three rules. Specifically, “no jealousy,” the basis of which was that they were all different people. The two sides—his more logical side and his more primal nature—were fighting for dominance. However, when,  a moment later, Jackson sighed deeply and his eyes filled with steely resignation, Stiles knew immediately which side had won out.

“Fine,” Jackson breathed, almost too quietly to hear, “okay. I’ll take you.”

“Thank you,” Stiles breathed back, relief wrapping around him like a warm, weightless blanket.

“But,” the blond added, a smirk causing the corner of his mouth to twitch as his eyes suddenly sparkled, the serious expression from not even a second ago disappearing as if it’d never been there, “you owe us. Big time.”

Stiles cocked his head, deciding to play along for now.

“Oh? And what do I owe you?”

“Sexual favors,” Jackson replied without batting an eyelash, picking up his fork and using the edge to cut himself a bite of his lasagna.

“Done,” Stiles deadpanned, fighting to keep himself from grinning. He took his fork from where he’d been fiddling with it and cut his own bite of lasagna—Isaac really did make it better; he’d have to ask the beta what he did to get the meat to be so _damn tasty_ —bringing it to his mouth and chewing, glad the conversation was over.

“For a month.”

Stiles almost inhaled the pasta and meat in his mouth, instead managing to make a spectacular show of gagging and choking and wheezing until he could wrap his fingers around his glass of water and take a large gulp.

“For god’s sake, Jackson,” Isaac murmured, head shaking as he smiled, “behave or I won’t make you lasagna again for at least two weeks.”

And as the three of them burst out laughing at Jackson’s mock-affronted expression—because really, who was he fooling? They knew him too well by now—Stiles knew they were going to be fine.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Jackson!”

The voice pulled him out of the visions that surrounded him, screaming. He could _still smell it_ , could still _taste_ the gore on his tongue, could still _feel_ his mates’ blood coating his fingers like rich, warm syrup, and he couldn’t fucking bear the thought that he’d done it—it’d finally happened, he knew it had just been a matter of time, god _fucking_ damn it why had none of them listened to him?—he’d killed his mates. His chest felt like it was going to implode, and he screamed as loud as he could for as long as he could force the air from his lungs. He needed to get it out of him, he couldn’t _stand_ the weight that bore down on him, that crushed him in a way that far exceeded anything physical, that flattened him until he could feel nothing but the _pain_ and _regret_.

He needed to get this feeling out—he couldn’t fucking live with it, the same way he knew he absolutely couldn’t live without his mates, that he’d be better off _dead_ than try and navigate the ruins of his own life so bitterly _alone_ —so he extended his claws in a flash and latched them on either side of his chest, fully prepared to rip his own heart out because _why did it have to hurt so fucking much why did he have to do that why wasn’t he allowed to have even one nice thing in his fucked-up miserable existence it wasn’t fucking fair all he wanted was_ —

An iron grip closed around his wrists, and Jackson looked up, eyes heating as they flashed bright blue.

Yellow tore through his mind and all of a sudden it was like nothing else existed, because there was Isaac above him, eyes wide and _burning_ and so full of fear. _Fear_. ‘ _I put that there_ ,’ he thought with a distant sort of detachment, ‘ _I made my mate afraid_.’

The thought steeled his resolve, and, trying to convey a silent apology to the beta above him, Jackson bore down on the wrists restraining him, claws digging into the flesh of his chest and—

And a pain so intense it whited out his vision _exploded_ through his mind, centered on his wrists.

Sound returned to him in a rush.

Someone was screaming.

“What the fuck, I’?”

“He was going to _kill_ himself, Stiles.”

The screaming was still coming from somewhere, high-pitched and anguished.

“You don’t know that for certain! And even if he was, you didn’t have to freaking _snap_ his wrists!”

“You can’t smell him, you don’t know what he’s feeling, alright? He was—”

“Oh, so now because I’m a human I can’t tell what my own fucking boyfriends are feeling?”

“For fuck’s sake, Stiles, that’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m just saying that if you _were_ able to smell what he was feeling, you’d know that he was fucking neck-deep in _despair_. Do you know what despair smells like? _Death_ , Stiles. It smells like _death_ and _sadness_.”

A warm hand landed on his forehead and smoothed his short hair backward, and he was dimly aware of the unmistakable sound of Scott’s voice.

“Shh, shh, Jacks’, it’s okay, it’s alright love, we’re here—”

Oh.

The person screaming was him, apparently. He felt more than heard the moment his screamed died out, his throat suddenly raw and burning.

“—it was just a dream, we’re all fine, you’re fine, we love you, we’re all here…”

Color slowly returned to Jackson’s vision as the pain in his wrists lessened from a white-hot inferno to an aching, sparking throb and Scott’s voice tapered off into a soothing background hum. Scott was kneeling over him, one hand on Jackson’s forehead and the other cradling his wrists which—oh, wrists weren’t supposed to bend like that, were they? There were black lines running up Scott’s arm as Jackson’s boyfriend leeched away his pain, but even with that he could feel the sharp pricks of the bones knitting themselves back together. A grinding sensation crawled up his arm as the bones twisted themselves back into their proper places.

And then the visions from before, which had begun to fade like a sunset, raced back across his mind’s eye with startling clarity, branding themselves into his memory.

His stomach heaved, and he barely had enough time to crawl to the edge of the bed in a near-frenzy and grab the trash can there before his stomach emptied itself of what little it still contained. The sound seemed to snap Stiles and Isaac out of whatever spat they’d been having, as both were beside Scott in an instant, whispering soft words to Jackson and rubbing their hands over his _too-hot-too-cold_ skin. He pushed the trash can away from himself once he knew he wasn’t going to vomit again, groaning into his arm as he laid his forehead down.

“Jackson? Do you want to talk about it?” And that would be Scott, he thought to himself, always trying to talk about their damn _feelings_. Despite the errant thought, he felt a thread of warmth stir in his chest at the words and the gentle brush of fingers against his sweat-soaked shoulder that accompanied them. He shook his head, letting a miserable groan work its way out of his throat.

“No,” he sighed, trying to let the heartbeats and steady breaths of his mates calm the jackhammering in his chest, “but you’re not gonna let me get back to sleep until I do, are you?”

“Nope,” Scott replied, the concern in his voice slightly stretched in a way Jackson had long ago recognized meant his mate was grinning toothily. Jackson grunted, a spark of something igniting in his chest. However, when he rolled over and took in the sight of his mates—Scott on his right, Stiles and Isaac on his right, all three of them wearing their own variant of worry—the spark was practically snuffed out as the dream flashed through his mind once more. He closed his eyes, the images becoming all at once closer yet duller around the edges, and he had to fight down the surge of _don’t look can’t look get away_ _please no_ that tried to make him lash out or curl himself into a ball.

“I… I was the kanima again,” he spoke softly, letting the words drift into the air.

“You mean you dreamt of one of the murders again?” Isaac asked, leaning forward to splay his fingers on Jackson’s chest, just over the blond’s heart. Jackson flinched when he saw the hand coming. Isaac’s eyes widened almost comically before glittering with hurt, and immediately Jackson felt recrimination as a burn that flowed along his spine before settling hotly on his face and in his gut.

When Jackson didn’t say anything, only continued to stare at his mate as the desire to pull the taller blond into his arms became almost as loud as the voice whispering in his mind that he was _tainted_ , _unclean_ , _can’t be trusted_ , _you shouldn’t be near me_ , Stiles asked, “Was it Isaac’s dad this time?”

It was only after Jackson saw Scott and Stiles wrap comforting arms around Isaac—Scott around the blond’s waist, Stiles around his shoulders—and the hurt in the taller beta’s eyes abate slightly that he was able to find his voice again.

“N-no, it wasn’t,” he took a breath, “it wasn’t a memory. I was the kanima again, and I’d—”

Again the dizzying rush of images—blood-soaked walls, talons stained crimson, the taste of copper in his mouth—flashed across his awareness, but he fought back the disorientation and continued speaking.

“I-I k-killed you.”

There was a beat of silence in which Jackson’s stomach twisted threateningly before he whimpered, “All of you.”

As the words caught up with him, the sight of his mates’ lifeless eyes threatening to tear past his vision once again, Jackson felt Isaac’s arms wrap around him as the curly-haired beta’s head wedged itself into the crook of his neck, radiating understanding.

“Jackson,” he breathed, Stiles and Scott shuffling closer, both of them lying down until their faces were inches from Jackson’s own, “we know you’d never do that. That’s not what you are anymore. It was never who you were in the first place. You’re not a killer.”

“My eyes—” Jackson started, feeling something well up in his throat at the words.

“Are some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” Stiles cut in, “and they don’t make you a killer. You didn’t kill those people, Jackson. Gerrard did. Matt did. But not you.”

“But—”

“No, he’s right, Jacks’,” Scott whispered, caressing Jackson’s jaw—Jackson shuddered at the contact, the hair at the nape of his neck standing on end—as he forced the blond to look at him with gentle but insistent pushes, “your eyes are beautiful. They’re a part of you. They’re a reminder of what you’ve endured. They’re a reminder that you’re _strong_. And every time I look into them, I’m so… so happy that someone like you is willing to share their life with me. Because you’ve overcome so much in your life, Jacks’. You’ve done so much, come so far, all in spite of everything that happened to you. Hell, you even got your Ph.D. in three years, which everyone else said was impossible, but you just laughed in their faces and did it anyway.”

“I’m not strong,” Jackson whispered back, almost beneath the range of human hearing. “If I were strong, I wouldn’t’ve allowed them to use me like some kind of… some kind of _weapon_ like that.”

“You’re wrong,” Isaac retorted, the force behind the words snapping the shorter blond’s gaze up to where Isaac was perched above him. Something in Jackson’s chest clenched; distantly, he was aware of the prickling at the edges of his vision telling him that his eyes were drawn wide. Isaac’s blue irises seemed to be trying to drown him, their expression some near-incomprehensible combination of earnest and defiant.

“If you _hadn’t_ been strong,” Isaac continued, Scott still tracing the curve of Jackson’s jaw with feather-light touches that drew gooseflesh up Jackson’s neck and down his arms, “we wouldn’t have been able to save you. Some part of you was fighting. Some part of you knew, like we did, that you deserved to be saved. That same part is the part that still feels guilty about it even today. And that _doesn’t_ make you weak, Jacks’. It makes you _strong_ and _beautiful_ and _you_ , and I, for one, wouldn’t want to have you any other way.”

Silence followed the beta’s words. Jackson had to close his eyes against the flood of warmth that enveloped him, stinging behind his shut eyelids. It was only belatedly that he realized there was also literal warmth enveloping him. Isaac’ cheek settled against his chest as the blond’s lanky arms encircled Jackson’s shoulders, and Scott and Stiles had both shuffled closer at the same time—the synchronization of which Jackson would’ve found adorable to the point of annoyance if he’d been in any kind of mood to think about it. The two brunets had effectively tangled their legs with his, their arms coming up to form a cage around Isaac and Jackson’s entwined bodies.

“Besides,” Stiles finally added quietly, lips ghosting against Jackson’s arm, “that was seven years ago. We’ve all changed so much since then that I don’t think we can really be held entirely accountable for what happened back then. I mean, sure, Scott still sleeps with a nightlight,” despite Scott spluttering an indignant ‘That’s because I get worried that _you’re_ going to get up in the middle of the night and trip and hurt yourself, jerk,’ Stiles continued speaking over him, though Jackson could feel the fond smile on the brunet’s lips as his words soaked into the pale skin beneath him, “and yeah, Jackson, you can still be an asshole sometimes, but so what? That’s not all of who you are. You’re Jackson Whittemore. One of the kindest, strongest people I know, drop-dead gorgeous, and,” Stiles voice caught for a half second, emotion coloring his tone as the smile dropped from his features like water off a stone, “and the love of my life. So don’t ever think that we love you any less—or that we _don’t_ love you—because of what happened back then, or that we’re _afraid_ of you, or don’t _trust_ you, because that’ll never happen. Alright?”

At the last word, Stiles’ arms tightened incrementally around Jackson’s body, and for a moment Jackson’s heart pounded and it was suddenly too much too close his mates were too close his skin was too tight he was _dangerous_ why were they still so—

And then there were long, gentle fingers that cupped his face and forced him to drown in blue blue _impossibly_ _blue_ and—

And suddenly he fit in his skin and he could breathe again.

“We’ve got you, Jacks’,” Isaac whispered above him, words ghosting over Jackson’s lips as those lithe digits soothed away imaginary tears, tracing patterns into his skin that only the taller blond understood. Jackson let the scent of his mates wrap around him, driving away the nightmares and replacing it with a bone-deep sense of belonging.

“We’ve always got you.”

Waves of sleep blanketed the blond and edged him towards the void, and he could practically feel his heartbeat slow, his breathing becoming shallower as it evened out. Just as he neared the precipice, though, his mates’ voices filtered through his awareness, words sticking in his drowsy mind.

“You’d think that after all this time he’d get it,” sounded Stiles’ voice from his side, words carrying the barest hint of worry; it held none of the annoyance Jackson would’ve expected. “That he’s stuck with us, that is, for better or for worse. We’re _mates_.”

The voice that responded came from Jackson’s other side; Scott’s voice always carried with it a quality of _care_ that the blond knew he would never be able to mistake as belonging to anyone else.

“But you know how he thinks: he probably thinks we got stuck with him instead of choosing him.”

The words caused a pained whimper from above, and Jackson felt as much as felt Isaac’s words as they rumbled through his chest where the taller blond had nosed his way down Jackson’s neck.

“Never,” the beta murmured. “There wouldn’t be an ‘us’ without him—without any of us. It wouldn’t be right.”

As Jackson’s mind succumbed at last to sleep, flinging itself over the ledge as a feeling as if he were falling overtook his awareness, his last coherent thought was that he could never articulate just how much his mates meant to him.

“We know, Jacks’,” came Scott’s sleepy voice beside him, and had he said that out—?

But then he was gone, plunging into his dreams. He dreamt only of light and love and the feeling of arms as they wrapped around him, holding the darkness at bay.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Stiles let out a laugh as he dashed through the maze of hallways constructed from plastic and metal dividers, neon lights splashing over his pale skin in the black-lit room. The equipment stitched into his vest clunked lightly every time he took a step, the spare length of the straps striking the plastic where Stiles had tightened them, though the sound was nearly drowned out by the shrieks of children and adults alike as they ran through the maze of lights. Heavy bass thrummed in his ears, reverberating in his chest and giving his steps an extra spring as he ran in time with the up-tempo beat. The adrenaline coursing through his system made everything seem muted and far away, yet startlingly vivid all at once, like he was viewing his life through a magnifying glass while wrapped in a layer of bubble wrap.

A beam of bloodred light flashed through a gap in the divider to his left, illuminating a spot on the faux-rock wall approximately a foot and a half ahead of him. Catching himself and ducking down as more beams splashed above his head, Stiles lifted the plastic gun in his hands and squeezed off several shots, sending his own lime-green rays into the dark. The sounds of cursing and the fake explosions in his headset told Stiles he’d found his mark, and he allowed himself a moment to revel in his victory—blind luck, but no one else had to know that—before a body collided with him from behind. He nearly pitched forward onto his face, but at the last second familiar arms wrapped themselves around his waist.

“Hey babe,” Scott giggled into the din, teeth glowing as he flashed Stiles a grin. Stiles felt his heart pound a little harder. Scott’s grin turned feral for a moment as his eyes flashed yellow, and he lifted his own gun to send three quick bursts of green into the dark before ducking back down beside Stiles. Each found their mark, of course, and three muted explosion sound effects filled Stiles’ headset, informing him of a kill nearby.

“Hey, no fair using your wolfy powers,” he whispered, not bothering to raise his voice; Scott would be able to hear him, even through all the noise. Despite the reprimand, he couldn’t seem to pull the grin on his face into something even resembling a frown.

“Love and war,” Scott breathed onto Stiles’ lips, practically quivering with excitement and—Stiles hoped—happiness. Scott flashed him his lopsided grin again, planted a quick kiss on Stiles’ lips, and then pulled the human to his feet and started dragging him further down the corridor.

“Isaac’s storming the yellow base. Told him not without us. Come on,” was all he said by way of explanation, and Stiles let out another laugh as he and Scott started running through the twists and turns of the obstacle course, red and yellow beams arcing after them as they ran, their headsets keeping up a steady stream of near-miss laser effects.

Suddenly, a klaxon shrieked throughout the entire room, and Stiles swore to himself. He stopped Scott and pulled the werewolf closer to him, inching forward after a second to look around the corner before he addressed the quizzical look shot his way.

“Turrets are about to fire up,” he explained, remembering something about this from the brief orientation they’d had before being shoved headfirst into a warzone.

“Isaac,” Stiles called into the darkness, not caring if someone found him using his voice—they’d have a hard enough time just navigating anywhere in a second, he thought, smirking internally—and knowing his mate could hear him, “turrets.”

No sooner had he spoken than several spherical objects whirled to life on the ceiling, each of them dotted with dozens of red lasers that they painted over the entire arena, flashing over anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the open. Stiles dragged Scott down behind a piece of fake metal debris to their right, the obstruction preventing them from being tagged. Scott smiled back at Stiles and nosed his boyfriend’s shoulder, whispering a quiet “thanks” as they waited for the all-clear klaxon to sound.

“Anytime, oh lover-mine,” Stiles shot back with a smirk, happy to see that Scott had clearly overcome his earlier funk.

 _“Alright, that’s it,” Stiles had exploded, voice drowning out the sound of whichever stupid romcom Isaac and Scott had decided to queue up on Netflix, “I am done with this shit. In fact, I’m_ fifty shades _of done with this shit.”_

_He strode around the couch, stretching out his arms as he blocked the TV from the two unwashed lumps of hoodies and shorts and werewolf that peered at him with twin despondent, deer-in-the-headlights expressions. Though the sight of his boyfriends looking for all the world like their lives had ended stirred up an urge to envelop them in his arms, whisper to them that it would all be okay, to kiss their despair away, Stiles’ ire was not sated._

_“He’s been gone for three days, guys. Three. Days. And in that time, what have you done aside from sit on your asses, watch shitty movies, and mope? And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re both wearing his clothes, either.”_

_One of the lumps—the one with a few stray strands of curly blond hair peeking out the top that identified it as Isaac—had whimpered softly._

_“They smell like him.”_

_Stiles rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to snort. He steadfastly ignored the sounds of lips smacking and swelling music from the TV that seemed to indicate that someone was having Hollywood-sex behind him._

_“Yeah, and the apartment smells like you two. Because you stink. Seriously, have either of you bathed since he left?” Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. “And don’t you both have work today?”_

_“We called off,” Scott croaked pitifully, shuffling to burrow deeper into Jackson’s hoodie. Stiles had no doubt that the two of them would’ve been able to convince the hospital and clinic that they weren’t feeling well enough to come in—which, to be fair, was true in a roundabout fashion._

_When neither of them responded, only continued gazing at him, Stiles felt his anger relent as a faint thread of worry twisted its way through his mind. As much as it annoyed him to see Scott and Isaac moping like the world had ended, he couldn’t help but understand their feelings to a certain extent, nor could he stop the nagging need to do something to make them smile again. Coming to a decision, he dropped his arms and moved towards the couch, plopping himself between his boyfriends and pulling them into one-armed hugs._

_“Look, just because Jackson left for a week doesn’t mean he’s never coming back. He has two interviews and then he’ll be back, alright?” Stiles tried to interject a hint of authority into his voice, which, he supposed, would probably work better if he hadn’t pulled Scott and Isaac’s heads onto his shoulders to rub at their hair affectionately. “For now, go get showered and dressed in normal clothes. We’re going out.”_

The scream of the all-clear brought Stiles out of his memories. He looked up to see Scott’s eyes studying him with a faint smile before the other brunet tilted his head like he was hearing something from far away. His face twisted.

“Isaac got tagged twice by the turrets,” he whispered, and Stiles caught himself before asking how he knew, because duh: werewolves. “He’s pretty pissed at himself, but,” Scott tilted his head a little further, “he’s still waiting for us outside yellow base.”

As soon as the two of them stepped out from cover, a pair of yellow beams shone through the fog-filled darkness, missing Scott but painting over the green lights on Stiles’ chest and headset before he had time to react. An alarm sounded in his ears just after the laser effects, letting him know he’d been hit as a thirty-second countdown started up to let him know when he’d be able to fire again. The light at the tip of his gun hadn’t stopped flashing by the time Scott finished dispatching their opponents with near-brutal efficiency, and they high-tailed it out of there (‘ _Haha, high-tailed_ ,” his brain helpfully supplied. _‘Scott’s a werewolf. It’s funny_. _Now watch where you’re going.’_ ), Stiles nearly tripping over a dip in the floor in his haste to escape before their opponents’ thirty seconds were up.

Stiles found himself grinning as they ran, expression turning positively feral when his headset played a whirring noise as his gun came back to life.

“Alright then, let’s go kick some ass. Do me a favor and cover me, wolf-boy.”

Stiles leapt ahead of Scott, newfound confidence surging through him as he tried his best to remember the maze-like layout they’d been shown. Behind him, Scott laughed aloud, but out of the corner of his eye Stiles saw him dutifully checking behind them every few steps. After roughly a minute of dashing in the direction Stiles was sure they needed to go to reach yellow base, Scott stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and tugged him around a corner Stiles would’ve otherwise completely ignored.

Across a gap between two halls, two teams of red and yellow players that exchanging laser fire over cover. Stiles’ eyes widened slightly when he realized that both teams were completely unaware of their presence. With a whispered, “for real this time, no wolfy powers,” sent over his shoulder, the human crept forward, signaling Scott to follow.

When they finally arrived at the yellow base several minutes later (“I think we were supposed to turn left back there.” “Trust me, Scott. I know where I’m going.” “I don’t doubt you, man, but isn’t yellow base supposed to have yellow halls around it?” “Yes, and?” “These are green.”), they found Isaac balancing himself behind a corner at the end of a hallway streaked with yellow bars, occasionally glancing around the edge only to have a slew of amber beams chase him back behind the corner.

“Took you both long enough,” he quipped with a smirk when Stiles and Scott took the corner at the opposite side of the hall’s entrance, “thought I’d have to take them on myself.”

“Blame short stuff over here,” Stiles replied with his own smirk, using his gun to gesture over his shoulder. “He insisted we stop and smell the roses. And the napalm.”

Isaac merely quirked an eyebrow at them, grinning like a cat, and sent a pointed look in Scott’s directions.

“What?” the brunet defended, “It was a perfect opportunity. We totally tagged all of them before they even knew what hit them.”

“By which he means,” Stiles corrected with a wry smile, “he let me tag all but two of them to prove he wasn’t doing anything below board, but otherwise served as a distraction.”

“Well,” Isaac quipped, grin turning positively lecherous, “with an ass like that, who wouldn’t be distracted.”

Stiles threw his hands in the air. “Oh my god, you two, cut it out and let’s go.”

A buzzer sounded somewhere high above, and a metallic voice cut in, letting them know they had two minutes until play ceased.

“I do believe that’s our signal, gents,” Stiles said, stepping around the corner and wiggling to the left, then right, then left again to try and foul any attempt the other team made at getting a bead on him. He heard Scott and Isaac sigh as they followed, and soon their verdant beams filled the hallway as gold lances tried to score a hit at a vital point.

Stiles was tagged in the leg, but kept going, conscious of keeping his chest and head relatively shielded as he tagged one, then two of the defenders in the chest and ear, respectively, their guns issuing sounds of protest as they continued to try and fire. The rest were mowed down with an efficiency that almost scared Stiles, and he had just enough time to mutter, “Explain to me again how you both suck at Call of Duty,” before they were pushing onward, conscious of the thirty second time limit they had until the opponents at their back surrounded them.

Fifty four seconds later found Stiles pointing his gun at the sensor on the roof of the yellow base, recessed so it could only be seen from directly below, and pulling the trigger as Scott and Isaac covered the doors.

Thirteen seconds after that, the buzzer sounded and the same metallic voice from earlier informed them that play was concluded.

Seventy four seconds after that found Isaac and Scott making such obscene expressions in Stiles’ direction as he removed the gear from his sweat-drenched clothes that he had to remind them that this was a _family_ establishment, and they would do very well to keep their eyes to themselves thank you very much. Not that he actually minded.

One hundred and thirty seconds after _that_ found Stiles whooping and jumping around, stealing kisses from his boyfriends as the scoreboard for green team displayed “Wise Man” as the most valuable player for the match as well as the top scorer for the entire game.

Scott’s mumbled “Family establishment, huh?” against his lips was resoundingly ignored.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Scott lay basking in the residual warmth of the sheets, determined to sleep in. It was a Sunday, and Isaac and Jackson had just gone out for their morning run. That meant that he didn’t have any damn clinicals to be ready for at eight in the fucking morning—and even if he did, it was six in the freaking morning because really? Who gets up to run at _six?_ —so he would be damned if he wasn’t going to take advantage of every extra second of sleep he could. The sounds of birds happily chirping outside made him want to roll over and hide his head in a pillow, but the chest beneath his ear—the proximity of the gentle breathing and laconic heartbeat—was enough to keep him distracted to the point of being unable to muster up the effort to care. He nuzzled into the expanse of pale skin beneath him, bringing up a hand to pillow his cheek as he sighed happily.

“Scott? You awake, man?”

Scott jumped—he may or may not have yelpedat the same time, but that depended on one’s definition of such things (yeah, he totally had)—and whipped his head up, looking up to find a pair of honey brown eyes watching him warily, amusement coating them on the surface while something…else swam in their depths. Something that made Scott’s legs feel like they were made of rubber and chilled his stomach at the same time. He removed his hand from Stiles’ chest, immediately cognizant (yesterday’s word of the day, thank you dictionary app.) of the loss of contact.

Above him, Stiles chuckled and scooted up the bed, propping himself on his elbows before resting his head and shoulders against the cherry-wood headboard of the queen-size bed they all shared. The warm gaze never left Scott’s face, and, after he was sitting up, Stiles absently rubbed at the spot over his heart Scott’s head had just occupied, though the beta was sure the other teen was unaware of the motion. Scott and Stiles had known each other long enough that Scott could easily tell that Stiles’ smile was half fake—he _was_ amused, but either he was less amused than he was letting on or he had something bothering him. Ultimately, it was the second possibility that pulled the words from Scott’s lips.

“What’s wrong?”

The second the words left his lips, though, Scott couldn’t fight the feeling that they sounded _wrong_. They caught in the space between the two teens, disparate and unfamiliar.

Just like all the other words they’d been avoiding for the past nine months.

It wasn’t that Scott and Stiles had never helped each other through difficulty—after all, when Scott’s dad left and Stiles’ mom died, it’d felt like the only thing they’d been able to hold on to was each other—but more that they’d never actually needed to _ask_ what was bothering the other since, well, _ever_. Yet here he was: closer to Stiles than he’d ever been, and Scott couldn’t shake the feeling that, over the course of the past nine months—and the four months before that—he could no longer tell what Stiles was thinking. And, sure, he’d never really _known_ before, but he’d at least been able to hazard a _guess_ ; now, all Scott could tell was that Stiles was thinking long and hard about something and that it was upsetting him, but he was also trying his damndest not to show it. Scott didn’t like this feeling—this sudden feeling of not knowing the person who had, up until less than a year ago, been closer to him than anyone alive.

So, yeah: it sounded wrong. The words _felt_ wrong. Startling in their necessity. In front of him, Stiles took in a deliberate breath, held it for a second, and then let it out in a rush. As the air flowed from between the human’s lips, Scott saw the false amusement fall away until all that was left behind was a faint expression of consternation, Stiles’ eyebrows drawing themselves together and the corners of his mouth tightening towards his jaw line.

“I,” Stiles started, eyes dropping to somewhere around Scott’s neck as he bit his bottom lip, “I don’t really know how to say it, man.”

Scott couldn’t help himself.

“Well, using some words—preferably in English—might be a good start.”

That earned him a rueful twitch of Stiles’ lips, his face flashing into a faint smile so quickly that Scott almost missed it. He still wasn’t looking Scott in the eye. There was a tension building between them—it had been for a while, if Scott was honest with himself—and it seemed to be coming to a crescendo in this moment. The air felt too heavy against Scott’s skin, and, though his joking words slightly eased the feeling of being crushed, the weight was still there; still real enough that Scott didn’t think he could lift his arms to hold Stiles right now no matter how much he wanted to.

“Okay, look,” Stiles finally murmured after a moment, right hand scratching at the back of his head in a gesture Scott knew meant the other brunet was nervous, “we’re best friends, right?”

“I mean, yeah, I think?” Scott answered, eyes shifting to the right and coming to rest on the clock’s red numbers; numbers were easy. “Actually, I—I think so, yeah?”

“See, that’s the thing,” Stiles muttered, and Scott wasn’t sure if the human was speaking to himself or not, “we don’t freaking _talk_ about it, do we?”

“No,” he decided to respond anyway, tracking his gaze back towards his mate, eyes locked onto the human’s clavicle; he didn’t think he could stand to look up and drown in those chocolate depths right now. “We haven’t, I guess.”

There was a pause during which the tension mounted even further, constricting his chest until Scott found himself struggling to draw in breath.

“So…” Stiles eventually started, “maybe we should talk about it?”

“But how, Stiles?” Scott found himself asking before he’d made the conscious decision to even say the words. “I don’t know what to say anymore. I mean, you were my best friend and, y’know, I don’t think that’s changed or anything, but I just don’t know how to _feel_ around you—to feel _about_ you—anymore. I have all these feelings stuck in here,” he lifted a hand to his chest where the pressure continued to build, “and I just… I get so lost. I don’t even know where to start. I don’t know what’s right or what’s allowed anymore. Are we best friends that just so happen to be mates and have sex? Are we just mates at this point? Because when I’m with you it feels—it feels _different_ than when I’m with Isaac or Jackson. And I don’t know if that’s good or bad or something in-between or if I’m just losing my mind or _what_ at this point.”

Stiles sighed, his hand twitching where it was fisted in his hair. Scott couldn’t tell if it meant anything, but some part of him desperately hoped that it’d been an aborted attempt to reach forward and offer comfort.

“Look, Scott,” the words were soft, but still contained a hint of uncertainty, “I mean, I’ve always felt like more than your best friend. You’ve been like a brother to me practically my entire life. I think that’s why this is so different, because this feels, man, I don’t know, both kinda of wrong but so much more right?”

Scott’s eyes darted back up to Stiles’ face, trying to convey without words that he _understood_ _exactly_ what the other brunet was saying, that it was what he was feeling too, that Stiles had—as he always did—given voice to the things that Scott couldn’t.

“So I don’t know what that means for us,” Stiles continued, “because you’re like my brother and, I mean, _I_ still think of you as my best friend ever, but then you’re also my mate and I have feelings for you—like, _strong_ feelings, dude—and I guess I just don’t know which comes first.”

Something occurred to Scott in that moment, and he felt his eyes widen as they strayed back down to Stiles’ neck—really, it should be illegal for a _neck_ to be that attractive.

“What if they don’t have to?”

As the words tumbled from his lips in a near-whispered rush, the weight on his chest abruptly vanished. At the edge of his focus, he could see Stiles’ head as it swiveled back up to face him full-on.

“What do you mean?”

Scott took a second to organize his thoughts, because he _needed_ to say this right; _needed_ to get the wisps of emotion and reason flying around his chest and head to both solidify into a coherent, cohesive shape that made some kind of sense. And he needed to do it _now_ , because the longer he sat and thought about it, the more ephemeral the wisps became.

“What if we just stopped thinking about it? What if we just… are? We’re best friends and mates and boyfriends and everything in-between and we just… don’t care about the rest?”

He could see the moment the words found their intended mark, because Stiles’ eyes lit up in the sliver of dawn light that peeked around the curtains, painting a tawny line down the teen’s face.

“And it might feel different with each other,” Stiles finished his thought for him, “but so what? We knew from the get-go that each of our relationships to each other is different. And that’s fine because that’s just the way it is. Rule number one.”

“Rule number one,” Scott echoed, a smile threatening to break out on his face.

“So, are we okay, then?” Stiles eventually asked, eyes shifting to meet Scott’s, seemingly unbothered by the light that was shining directly into his left eye.

Scott lost the battle with the smile. He slid out of the bed, the sheets trying to follow him, and turned to face his friend-lover-boyfriend-mate.

“Yeah, I think we are. C’mon, you can make us pancakes or something and I’ll set up Brawl.”

“At six thirty in the morning?” Stiles complained, sinking down under the covers, “On a Sunday? You’ve clearly forgotten who you’re talking to.”

“I mean, unless you want me to cook and you can set up Brawl—” Scott started, but Stiles cut him off, throwing the sheets off himself almost violently as he stalked towards the bathroom.

“No, no, nope, It’s fine, I’ll make pancakes. I rather like this apartment and want it to stay intact instead of reduced to a smouldering cinder.”

“Hey, I’m not _that_ bad at cooking.”

Stiles just leveled him with a _look_ , and Scott felt himself blushing because, okay, maybe he _was_ that bad. He pouted theatrically, pulling out the puppy dog eyes that he knew Stiles—or any of his mates, really—could never resist.

“Okay, fine,” Stiles groaned in a mock-pain, grin evidence that he was joking, “we’ll shower together first and then you can help me make pancakes. I’ll even let you lick the spoon.”

Scott stalked forward, heat suffusing his body as he leaned forward and planted his lips gently on Stiles’, nipping at the brunet’s bottom lip as he pulled away.

“You know that only works with cake, right? Besides, I can think of other,” he let his gaze run up and down Stiles’ naked body suggestively, his eyes heating as they flashed yellow, “things that would be much more fun to lick right now.”

Stiles blushed, seemingly suddenly aware of his own nudity, and he let out a whimper that Scott dove back in and swallowed, pushing his friend-boyfriend-lover-mate—his _Stiles_ —towards the shower.

Pancakes could wait (they would eventually end up making chocolate chip pancakes when Scott found the bag of morsels hidden at the back of the pantry; Stiles would laugh at Scott hopping from foot to foot as the human cooked, the beta as impatient as ever where food was concerned, and Scott would feel something warm settle in his gut at the sound). Right now he had more important things to attend to.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Bass pounded against his eardrums in a steady thrum. The smells and sounds of hundreds of bodies as they wound around, between, and through each other was almost as nauseating as it was arousing. Even from his table, Jackson could clearly hear the elevated heartbeats of the people on the dance floor, the breathy moans and messy sounds of someone in the back getting a blowjob, and, through all that, the excited, breathless sounds of his mates as they danced together. Isaac was sandwiched between Scott and Stiles, the blond throwing his head back as the two brunets worked with a languid fervor at his neck. From this far away, Jackson could still clearly see the bruises they were teething into Isaac’s skin, the marks yellowing and fading within seconds. All around them, Jungle writhed, sex and booze and cloying arousal.

“Y’know, if you want to join them, you should go right ahead,” said a voice from Jackson’s right—he did _not_ jump, damn it—that brought him out of his staring contest with the veritable wall of bodies. He glanced over at Danny where the human was sipping at… something alcoholic and pinkish. “You don’t have to stay here and keep me company, man.”

Frustration welled in Jackson’s belly at the words, because of _course_ Danny would think that.

“I’m not staying here for you, jackwad,” he retorted, elevating his voice to be heard in the din. “I’m staying over here because I want to.”

Danny simply raised an eyebrow and took a sip from his drink—his fourth, if Jackson remembered correctly—and sent a quick, pointed glance at Jackson’s pants, which had developed a noticeable bulge.

“Fine,” Jackson breathed out, rolling his eyes. “I’m also here because you invited us to come out dancing with you and you’re my friend. I don’t want you to feel like a third wheel or whatever.”

Danny’s other eyebrow joined his first, and he took a surprised slurp of his drink.

“Two years away with them and they’ve already managed to teach you _manners_?” he asked the blond, the words slurring together ever so slightly as he sent an approving glance towards the dance floor. “I know were’s can’t get drunk, so who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”

Jackson just rolled his eyes again, gaze landing on his mates. Scott had wound a fist into Isaac’s hair at some point, pulling the blond locks harshly enough that the other beta’s head was tilted back to bare the expanse of his throat to Stiles’ oh-so-skilled mouth. Scott’s was leaning over Isaac’s shoulder, and Jackson could see his lips forming words—undoubtedly filthy—into the shell of the blond’s ear. Isaac, for his part, was writhing under their combined ministrations, and Jackson could see him bucking up into the palm of Stiles’ hand when the crowd parted just right.

“‘Sides,” Danny added, and, okay, maybe Jackson did jump slightly this time, “everyone here thinks you’re my _boyfriend_ , skulking over me, guarding me from dangerous strangers. I hope you know that I wanna get fucked tonight, too. It’s not as sure for me as it is for you, J’.”

“And who says I’m getting fucked tonight?” Jackson countered with an arched eyebrow.

Danny just stared at him, face incredulous. Jackson stared back, unwilling to be the first to back down.

“Y’know,” Danny said, not breaking eye contact, gaze steady but slightly unfocused due to the alcohol in his system, “when I found you guys in the shower together a year ago, I seem to recall that you were on your knees.”

Jackson didn’t flinch. His face, however, heated by the slightest of margins. Danny raised a corner of his mouth in a triumphant smirk before adding, “And hands.”

Jackson ignored the way his face heated even more. He so did not want to be talking about this with Danny, but he’d be damned if he backed down first.

“With Isaac’s dick down your throat and Scott and Stiles both ins—”

And at _that_ , Jackson coughed uncomfortably and turned away, face on fire.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Danny’s voice contained a distinct smirk, and Jackson could practically smell the human’s smugness through the whirlwind of other scents that surrounded them. He pointedly did not look up, instead finding his mates in the crowd again. It took him a few seconds—which was in and of itself strange—but as soon as he did he felt his heart drop into his stomach and a fire erupt behind his eyes.

A stranger was standing by his mates, arguing with them, looking for all the world like the cocky asshole Jackson used to pretend to be—or rather, his mind amended for him, the cocky asshole he used to actually be. Danny must’ve seen the direction of his gaze, because the smugness was replaced with a faint mix of worry and curiosity.

“Well. That doesn’t look good.”

Before he’d even finished the sentence, Jackson had pushed away from the table and was practically shoving people aside to get to his mates. Danny was calling after him, but he ignored it. As he got closer, he began to be able to make out Isaac’s voice arguing with one he didn’t recognize.

“—r offer, and the answer is no,” the blond stated. “Now back off.”

“And I think he can speak for himself, can’t you?” the unidentified voice asked in a clear baritone, the question obviously directed at someone who was _not_ Isaac.

“Dude,” came Stiles’ voice, flippant and dismissive, “you’re seriously not my type.”

Jackson saw red. He pushed through the ranks of people who had backed away from the obvious altercation and stopped dancing to watch. _Vultures_ , he thought to himself, pulling a shorter, shirtless man behind him using the man’s belt loops for leverage and stepping into the circle.

“Is there a problem?” he asked his mates loudly, drawing their eyes and the eyes of the other guy—tall, tanned, short sandy-blond hair, too-tight purple v-neck and black jeans showing off an impressive array of muscles that would’ve, in a different life maybe, made Jackson take a second glance instead of just dismissing him—to him. Scott and Isaac quickly redirected their gazes from him to the asshole in front of them, eyes flashing their thanks, but Stiles instead smiled toothily—it did _not_ make Jackson’s heart stutter, he would swear that until the day he died—and waved at him as Jackson made his way over to his mates, ignoring the stranger whose eyes were still locked on him. He quickly checked Stiles over for any sorts of injuries—any that Scott and Isaac might’ve gotten would’ve faded by now—and, not finding any released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He cupped Stiles’ cheek in one hand after he was done with his inspection, nodding questioningly. When Stiles nodded back, eyes sparkling, Jackson saw as well as felt the red of rage recede slightly from his awareness.

“Nah, no problem,” answered the stranger, resting a hand on his hip and seemingly oblivious to—or not caring about—the intimate scene in front of him. “I just asked this little cutie here for a dance.”

“The answer is no,” Jackson uttered without turning or moving his eyes from Stiles.

“Yeah, well,” the guy continued; Jackson could see him moving forward and stretching out a hand in his peripheral vision, “maybe he just doesn’t know a real man when he meets one.”

Jackson gave the asshole until his hand was within an inch of Stiles’ skin before his own flashed up, fingers clamping around the wrist in front of him. Beside him, Isaac and Scott growled lowly in warning.

“Touch him, and I’ll break the bones of your hand into so many pieces they won’t be able to tell your phalanges from your pisiform,” Jackson threatened, his voice inflectionless and flat, still not looking away from his mates.

The guy actually had the audacity to _laugh_ at that.

“Ooh, think you’re some kind of smart guy, eh, short stuff?” Jackson actually looked to his right, then, and saw that, yes, the guy did actually tower slightly over his five foot nine stature; he had to have been six foot six, easily. He was practically _leering_ at Jackson. “Are you sure you wanna start somethin’ with me?”

“Scott?” Jackson casually called to his boyfriend.

“Yeah?” came the reply, garbled lightly; Jackson didn’t turn to look, but he was sure some of Scott’s fangs had probably descended.

“How many bones in the adult human wrist?”

The guy’s grin gained the slightest edge of confusion. Behind him, Jackson heard Stiles heave a sigh and murmur something that sounded distinctly like ‘Stupid, over-protective werewolf assholes,’ but he ignored it with practiced ease.

“Eight.”

Jackson clamped down, grinding the bones in his grip against each other until he heard a satisfying crack. The confusion on the man’s face morphed rapidly to pain and he let out a cry, the sound music to Jackson’s ears and making his wolf hum in contentment ( _our mate, ours, not yours,_ ours). Jackson eased up on his grip as he started to speak, but he did not let go.

“Make that nine, if you’re lucky. Want me to continue? I’m more than game to make it an even ten. Or have I made myself clear?”

“You’re fucking insane!” came the high, thready reply, and Jackson scoffed before using the man’s arm to toss him several feet away (which elicited another cry of pain). He turned back to his mates.

“Just be glad it wasn’t one of these other two.” Jackson tossed over his shoulder. “They would’ve torn your throat out. I prefer breaking bones: much more satisfying sounds than messing with soft tissues.”

“You’re not gonna fucking get away with this, kid.” Jackson heard the distinct sound of the man stumbling to his feet awkwardly, confidence apparently returning when Jackson was no longer holding one of his wrists. He turned around at the words, and he saw that the guy was cradling his injured arm to his chest, one of the least intimidating glares Jackson had ever seen leveled towards the four teens. It didn’t help that his face had gone pale and clammy with obvious pain. Jackson stalked towards the stranger, ignoring the subsonic growls the action earned him from his mates, and got right in the guy’s face where none of the other patrons could see his own face. To the man’s credit, he didn’t flinch.

Then, heat pooling in his irises, he let his eyes glow as his fangs dropped from his gums with a warm, tingling sensation. He opened his mouth in a feral smile.

To say the guy looked terrified would be an understatement.

“Oh yes, I am,” he replied, the words mashed slightly. “You just fell down the stairs over there, that’s all. Am I right?”

“R-right.”

“Good. I’m glad we have an understanding. And it’s going to stay that way. Unless you want to have a bad accident with a wood chipper. Because believe you me, that would be a mercy compared to what I can do to you when I’m _actually_ upset.”

He gestured at the guy’s wrist.

“This? This will seem like a _kindness_ compared to what I’ll do to you if you _ever_ lay a hand on one of my boyfriends again.”

He withdrew his fangs and pushed the heat in his eyes back before turning away and stalking towards his mates.

“Danny,” he called to where his friend had made it to the edge of the circle and was watching with a carefully detached amusement, “get the car. We’re leaving.”

“Dude, you’re the DD.”

Jackson sighed in exasperation.

“Fine. Give me your keys.”

It wasn’t until later, with Jackson driving, his mates in the backseat (Stiles in the middle as Scott and Isaac laid possessive hands on his shoulders and under his shirt, not-so-subtly marking him with their scents) and Danny in the passenger’s seat that anyone spoke again.

“God damn it,” Danny suddenly shouted into the silence, and Jackson nearly swerved off the damn road at his friend’s sudden outburst. “No fucking way are they letting me back in there. You asshole.” The words were directed at Jackson. “I _liked_ Jungle.”

“Of course they’ll let you back in, Danny,” Stiles piped up from the backseat. “You’re fucking hot, so they won’t think twice about it.”

When Jackson glared into the rear view mirror and growled, eyes flashing blue, Stiles rolled his own and scoffed.

“Oh, put them away tough guy. You’ve got me. Danny’s your friend and not a threat anyway. Besides, you can’t deny that he’s attractive.”

“I mean, unless you guys are up for… god, what would that be called? A ‘fivesome’?” Danny asked before dissolving into giggles, body bent in half in the front seat. “Oh my god, how would that even _work_?”

Jackson just sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes individually.

“No,” he grit out.

“Aw, what’s wrong, mister ‘I’m everyone’s type’? Jealous of lil’ ol’ human me?”

“Jesus christ, really? You _still_ remember that? Come on guys, help me out, here,” Jackson looked into the rear view mirror again pleadingly, but his mates were all smirking at him.

“He’s _your_ best friend,” Scott replied eventually. “He’s all yours, Jacks’.”

Jackson just groaned loudly, wanting to bury his head in his hands. He checked the impulse only because he was driving. His mates and best friend just laughed at him.

“Love you, too, J’,” Danny murmured sleepily, slumping down in his seat. “You guys should visit more often. Always more interesting. And besides, I miss you guys.”

“Yeah I know,” Jackson murmured back. “Miss you, too, D’.”

When he glanced back over, his friend had already passed out.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Jackson moans as he takes another bite of the pesto-alfredo linguine with chicken and bacon that Stiles had literally thought up an hour and a half ago, and Isaac can’t help himself as he fights back a groan of his own. He can practically feel arousal crawling up his spine before sliding back down and settling in his crotch, making his pants feel far too small. Seriously, every time Isaac’s near the blond he’s struck by the fact that it’s completely unfair how Jackson is sexy doing _any damn thing he pleases_. Jackson winks in Isaac’s direction with a sideways glance, head still tilted back to expose the pale column of his neck, and Isaac can feel his face flush red with both annoyance and embarrassment. He _knows_. He can probably smell Isaac’s arousal, but still: the bastard _knows_. Someone, he thinks to himself, is going to get his ass pounded tonight. Thoroughly.

Never mind that he knows that’s exactly what Jackson is manipulating him into. Not that Isaac needs any encouragement.

Isaac feels his eyes flare to life as images of what’s to come tonight flash across his mind—Jackson’s face absolutely _wrecked_ above him, beneath him, pleading for release; Scott and Stiles helping him as the three of them torturously bring the blond to the brink of his release before pulling him back from the edge; his mates surrounding him, their scents and sounds and the taste of their skin _filling_ him as he finally—before he blinks rapidly. The heat behind his irises sputters out like a campfire in the rain as he clamps down on his thigh to get a grip on his burgeoning arousal. There would be plenty of time for that later, he muses to himself.

The entire moment lasts all of a second, and Isaac is almost positive that Scott and Stiles missed it, Stiles because he’s too focused on his own food (that he’s currently inhaling like the teenaged boy he never stopped being), and Scott because he’s vibrating in his damn seat like a puppy that’s waiting for the ball to be thrown.

“Oh my god, Stiles, this is fucking _delicious_ ,” Jackson says, swallowing his current mouthful and acting for all intents and purposes as if he hadn’t just driven Isaac to distraction with a single gesture. “How did you find the stuff to make pesto? I thought we were out.”

“We were,” Stiles answers after swallowing, sly smile creeping on his face as he glances up to Jackson then sideways at Isaac before continuing, “but Isaac went and got some more just for this.”

Jackson’s gaze, which had shifted to Stiles’ usual spot across the table from him, turns back to Isaac at his left, eyes widening slightly. Isaac hears the other blond’s heartbeat flutter for the second time that night, and—oh. There will probably be a day when the way Jackson’s looking at him right now—some mixture of wonder, love, and _gratitude_ —won’t make Isaac crumble into a million sappy pieces, but that day is not today. He offers a small smile in return, having the courtesy to at least look down for a moment to keep himself from appearing smug. When he looks back up, Jackson’s still looking at him, expression so, _so_ open and filled with something that Isaac doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to name. He finds himself wishing Jackson looked like that more often: the blond does honesty well— _just like everything else_ , some small part of his mind reminds him. Across from him, he can see that Scott’s stopped bouncing—well, stopped bouncing _as much_ —the brunet having clued in to the tender moment. Stiles isn’t even bothering with trying to not look proud of himself (or, more likely, the three of them) at this point.

And it’s that particular look that Jackson’s giving him—the barely-there, wide-eyed smile that tells Isaac he’s completely banished whatever worries Jackson’s been carrying around, instead bringing him into the _here_ and _now_ —that tells him all the planning, all the running around, all the stress, has been absolutely worth it. He loves that look.

And he _hates_ that he has to ruin it.

But they promised.

It’s rule number two, after all.

“I love you too, Jacks,” he says into the silence, answering the unspoken words as he puts his fork down thoughtfully, “and, I really don’t want to ask, but,” he sighs, “I have to: you said there was something you need to tell us about. What is it?”

Jackson’s expression immediately tightens and snaps shut, so quickly and tightly Isaac could’ve sworn he heard the metallic _bang_ of a portcullis if he listened hard enough. Jackson’s eyes, despite having hardened, never leave Isaac’s face.

“Do we really have to?” the blond asks, jaw muscles taut.

Isaac tilts his head to the side, glances over at Scott momentarily, and then shakes his head slightly.

“Not really. I mean, Scott has some good news for us all, so if you want to hear that first then that’s fine. But, yes, we are going to talk about it. Rule two.”

At the invocation of one of their mutually-agreed-upon house rules, Jackson’s face twists as if he’d bitten into a rotten lime. After a moment’s consideration, the blond beta sighs and sags slightly in his chair. The illusion of calm, however, is ruined by the steely tightness Isaac can see—can also _sense_ in some way he can’t quite describe—the runs up and down Jackson’s spine and out along the planes of his shoulders.

“I got roped into teaching biochemistry next semester,” Jackson mumbles, words acidic, like they made the blond’s stomach turn.

Scott’s vibrating again, clearly seconds away from bursting at how close they are to his own news. Meanwhile, Stiles raises an eyebrow across the table from Jackson, confusion written on his face.

“But… I thought you loved biochem?”

Isaac, too, feels a knot of confusion in the pit of his stomach form next to a small kernel of dread.

“Jacks, babe, didn’t you get your Ph.D. in biochem?”

Jackson snorts. The tension in his back does not waver.

“I got my Ph.D. in biochem, yeah, but I don’t study biochem anymore, I’. I study stem cells. And that’s not the point, anyway.”

“Then what _is_ the—” Isaac starts, but Jackson cuts him off.

“It’s a night class.”

The venom dripping from Jackson’s words has Isaac stopping short, something cold clamping down on his heart. Across the table, he can see that Scott’s stopped, expression a blank mask that screams _wrong_ to Isaac’s senses. Isaac’s tongue feels like lead in his mouth, and he wants to ask—he _needs_ to ask—but the words simply can’t make it past his throat. He doesn’t like where this is going: not one bit.

And then Stiles speaks up, asking the question Isaac is sure all three of them are wondering—the question Isaac can’t bring himself to force from between his lips.

“But… what’s so bad about that?”

The glare Jackson sends Stiles’ way would make weaker men cringe, but neither Stiles nor Scott nor Isaac are weaker men: they’re Jackson’s mates. Nevertheless, the fact that he’s glaring at all isn’t a good omen. Isaac feels a sense of foreboding when Jackson opens his mouth to answer. Scott’s blank expression had shifted to one Isaac couldn’t quite place for the briefest of seconds (but if forced to guess, he’d have gone with _pain_ ), but his throat still refuses to cooperate when he tries to stop the coming storm.

“What’s so bad about that? What’s ‘so bad’ about that,” Jackson retorts, putting mocking emphasis on the words, “is that no one worth anything takes damn night classes, Stiles. They’re all a bunch of moronic ‘non traditional’ students,” he sneers at the words, bringing his hands up to make air quotes as well, derision dripping from the gesture, “who either haven’t ever gone to college in their entire goddamn lives or they fucked up the first time and, for some _absolutely idiotic_ reason that I cannot even _begin_ to guess at, they think they’ll do better this time.”

The look on Scott’s face ( _hurtpainbetrayalconfusionhurt)_ is finally enough to dislodge whatever blockage was keeping Isaac from speaking, and he clears his throat, and he tries to make his words authoritative.

“Jackson, I—”

Jackson’s gaze swivels to him, and Isaac wants to gasp from the ugly weight of it.

“No, I'm serious, Isaac, it’s a waste of their fucking time, and, more importantly, a waste of mine. I am in my _postdoc_. I have fucking _research_ to do. Research that takes _time_. Do you know how long it takes stem cells to differentiate? Days. _Weeks_ , even. And I have to run literally _dozens_ of experiments in parallel if I want my research to go anywhere anytime soon. I don’t have _time_ to teach a bunch of idiots who couldn’t even get their lives in order ten years ago, let alone _now_.”

Scott’s eyes have started to shine with something that Isaac is almost positive are tears.

“Jacks—”

“No, you don’t _get it_ ,” Jackson interrupts, fury blossoming behind his eyes as they flash blue in his agitation, “it’s not even _that._ As if it weren’t bad enough that it’s a night class, it’s _fucking biochemistry_. Do you _remember_ our biochem class? The two of us and, like, _four_ other people passed. Biochem is _hard_. These people aren’t gonna make it—they _can’t_ make it. I might as well flunk them all right now to save _myself_ the headache and _them_ the wasted semester.”

There’s a harsh scrapping across the table, and Isaac jerks his head over to see Scott standing, chair thrust back behind him haphazardly. There are tears on the brunet’s face, but his expression is a cold rictus of anger—biting enough to rival Jackson’s—as he looks the shorter blond straight in the eye.

“Fuck. You,” Scott breathes softly, the last word catching on its way out. He turns and practically flings himself into their shared bedroom, half his food still sitting on the table.

The sound of the lock turning from the other side is like a gunshot in the silence.

Stiles lets his head fall, catching it in his hands as he murmurs quietly, “God damn it, Jackson…”

Jackson at least has the decency to look stunned, eyes wide and once again their normal steely blue. He looks from Stiles to Isaac, back to Stiles, and finally settling back on Isaac again since, Isaac guesses, he’s still looking at Jackson.

“Wh—” the blond whispers in confusion, “what did I do?”

Isaac says nothing, simply slides his chair back and stands. He stalks over to Stiles and breaks his gaze with Jackson long enough to lean down and whisper, “Come with me,” to the brunet, placing a hand on Stiles’ arm and helping him up. Locking his eyes on Jackson once more, he steers their human mate and himself to the guest bedroom across the hall from their shared bedroom before pausing in the doorway.

“Scott’s in your class,” he flings into the quiet, taking no joy in the way Jackson’s face absolutely _crumples_ at the words, “he registered for it today. That was his good news.”

He pauses a moment, then decides that, yes, he loves Jackson, but, no, he’s not going to clean his mess up for him this time. This time is too much.

“You fucked up,” he says, keeping his words precise and measured, trying to hide the fact that his wolf is _screaming_ for him to comfort his mates, to rush to their sides, to leech the pain out of them and hold them until they’re puddles of happiness and love. He manages, somehow, to hold his mask of fury in place.

“Fix it.”

Then he slams the door.

He pointedly does not lock it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anything else, a huge THANK YOU to those of you who have read this far: it means so much to me you've no idea.
> 
> Alright, so a few comments about the content of this chapter.
> 
> Since it was the last thing you read, let me say a few words about Jackson's behavior in the last scene: This is legitimately what some people think. I have taken a night class--hell, I have taken MANY night classes because they tend to pack in hours in nice little once-a-week packages--before and been told almost word-for-word what Jackson says. By multiple people. Some of whom were actually the _professors_ teaching those night classes. Not all of them saw it that way, to be sure, but some still did. So yeah. If you have an issue with what Jackson says, if you think it's unrealistic for someone to say something so mean-spirited and vitriolic without even bothering to get context, I'm here to tell you that, unfortunately, you're wrong.
> 
> The LASER tag place that the boys go to is based off of my memories of several parties in sixth grade (which was... almost ten years ago) so if it seems really odd and off the wall, that's probably why.
> 
> The scene where Jackson is waking from the nightmare... well, let's just say I had a really hard time writing that scene and I AGONIZED over it for WEEKS. I thought perhaps I'd gone too far? But in the end I kept it the way it is. If it's not your cup of tea, well, I apologize. And if you think it's OOC or weird or anything, then that's perfectly understandable, too. Like I said, I had to justify it to myself for a long time before I decided I didn't need to change it completely.
> 
> ANYWAY. The next chapter is significantly shorter (about 8k words I think?) and only two scenes long... dun dun dun! We're approaching the finale, everyone! But yeah. That just means that the friday posting schedule I mandated for myself is going out he window because christ I can't wait that long! xD
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are, as always, more than welcome. I'm always happy to engage in dialogue with my readers, because, seriously, you guys are awesome.


	6. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laying foundations for the future, and Jackson tries to set things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't wait to post this. Literally, I have been jumping out of my skin wanting so badly to give this to you guys. Alas, the very end needed a lot of work when I glanced back over it, so I had to get it up to snuff. However, I hope you guys enjoy the way it turned out. It's only 7.5k words this time, so a bit shorter than usual. Then again, it's only two scenes, and the first scene is just under 2k words, so the second scene is a bit of a doozy. Sorry. But it had to be told.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so any mistakes or eccentricities are my own.

“So, I might’ve found us an apartment.”

Of _course_ Stiles said the words right as Scott had just taken a bite from his lunch—was it even fair for this to be called a burger?—and he felt it shoot back into the back of his throat as he took in a breath in surprise. He gagged and coughed, hands coming to his chest as he tried to expel the offending piece of foodstuff (again, that term was applied very loosely) until someone shoved a water bottle in his face. Scott groped for it until his fingers were wrapped around the plastic, and he quickly gulped down the cool liquid—whoever had handed him the drink had taken the cap off already—clearing his throat of any residual pressure or scratchiness once he’d swallowed. When he finally stopped gasping, he looked up to see that the three teens around him were staring: Stiles with a look that was both amused and concerned, Jackson with a mild annoyance that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Isaac with naked concern.

“You done dying on us, McCall?” the shorter blond asked from across the table. Stiles elbowed him in the ribs, and Jackson gave a cry of protest, brow furrowing as he flashed an offended look the brunet’s way. Never mind that any kind of damage Stiles might’ve inflicted—which was none, Scott was sure; Stiles wasn’t the kind of person to do something like that—would’ve faded within seconds.

“Be nice,” Stiles admonished without looking over at Jackson, smirk lifting the corners of his eyes as he kept his gaze fixed on Isaac and Scott across the table. Jackson leveled a glare at the brunet sitting beside him.

“Bite me.”

“Only if you stop being a jackass and ask pretty-please.”

Jackson sputtered, face tinting pink.

“I didn—You— _Fuck_ you.”

“Just tell me when, where, and how ha—”

“You were saying about the apartment, Stiles?” Isaac interjected, breaking the two out of their usual banter. Scott glanced sideways as imperceptibly as he could, flashing Isaac a small grin that the blond returned by brushing his knee against Scott’s thigh.

Stiles blinked owlishly for a moment, mouth stuck open, then he shook his head like a dog trying to shake off water.

“Yeah, right, the apartment.” He cleared his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck before a light seemed to come on in the back of his eyes—something Scott knew meant Stiles had just remembered and/or realized something important. Stiles reached down to his backpack, lifting it into his lap, unzipping it, and rifling through its contents and mumbling to himself. Finally, he let out a soft ‘ _ah-ha!_ ’ and produced several papers clipped together. Unceremoniously, Stiles pushed their lunch trays apart until he deemed the space to be large enough, then he started spreading the papers over the tabletop.

“That’s fine,” Scott joked as he sent a forced look of longing over at the remnants of his food, “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”

“I got your hungry right here,” Stiles muttered without looking up, one of his hands detouring from spreading out the documents to drop below the level of the table before reemerging; Scott had no illusions about the brief fate of that hand.

“Rude,” he giggled.

“You know you love me.”

Scott’s blood chilled at the familiar, easy words that fell from between Stiles’ lips, once so light-hearted, now with a completely different meaning. They felt… weird. Strange. _Different_. Not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way that Scott hadn’t had a chance to think about yet.

But that was a conversation for another day. He kept his grin in place, widening it fractionally and nodding slightly because, yeah, he _did_ love Stiles. One way or another.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Stiles continued, pointing to a circle he’d drawn on the map he’d set in the center of the table, “this is where campus is, right? And here,” he moved his hand until he was pointing at an X a little ways away from the circle, “is the building I’ve found. They have both two- and three-bedroom apartments, are only about a  fifteen minute drive from campus, and they’ve got pretty good reviews from what I can tell. I called the landlord to see if we could go by and check it out but… yeah. From what I can already tell, it looks promising,” he finished with a shrug, looking around.

“Is this the inside?” Isaac asked from beside Scott, lifting up one of the printouts that contained several pictures of a comfortable, homey-looking space.

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded, “that’s the common area in the two-bedrooms.”

“It looks perfect,” Isaac whispered wonderingly for a moment before he seemed to catch himself, face flushing. “I-I mean, we’ll have to see it firsthand, obviously, but it looks really good, Stiles.”

When Isaac handed the picture to Scott, the brunet couldn’t help but have the same thought as the other beta: it _did_ look perfect. Just big enough that they wouldn’t be cramped if they all wanted to hang out in the common area, but just small enough that it wouldn’t feel cavernous if they were alone. Never mind the furniture—which was probably just what the owners had put there to make it look as attractive as possible, Scott figured—just the size and _feel_ of it (at least, what he could feel from just the picture) was, well, in a word, perfect. He found himself nodding.

“Yeah, it looks good, we’ll definitely have to check it out. Soon.”

Scott handed the picture across the table to Jackson, and watched as a the blond raised an eyebrow before handing the paper back to Stiles.

“It looks fine,” Jackson grunted noncommittally. Stiles rolled his eyes at the shorter teen.

“Right. So. Do we want a two- or three-bedroom, do you think? I wasn’t sure if we wanted to have one as a spare or whatever, so…” he trailed off, looking around at the three of them. Isaac tilted his head, confusion leaking into his eyes.

“I thought the two-bedroom was the one with the spare?”

Scott felt something warm shoot through him at the words, and saw Stiles’ face flush pink as well as heard the human’s heart rate spike; Jackson, for his part, seemed completely unsurprised by the words and only reacted by nodding slightly, eyes tracking between the other three teens at the table. To his credit, Stiles recovered quickly, coughing lightly.

“Well, yeah, okay, wasn’t quite sure about, uh, sleeping arrangements but I suppose it makes sense that if we’re all trying to be together that we have one bedroom so yeah. Yeah,” he trailed off, looking at the mess of information in front of him.

“Alright then. Now that that’s out of the way,” Stiles muttered, shuffling around the loose papers until he found the one he wanted, pulling it out of the pile and placing it on top, “I figured that if we’re going to be living in close proximity to each other for the next few years—” (‘ _Or forever_ ,’ Scott mind supplied) “—we’ll need to have some ground rules we can all agree on.”

Stiles placed the sheet in the middle of the table. On it were three lines, each containing phrases so short Scott wasn’t quite sure they qualified to be “rules.”

“Rule one,” Stiles said, “is ‘No jealousy.’ I’ve been doing a lot of reading, and a lot of the stuff I’ve found agrees that in a polyamorous relationship each, uh, relationship, does that even make sense? Why do they use the same word for both things? Wouldn’t it make sense to call them ‘couples’ or something like that?”

“So what did you find?” Isaac interjected when Stiles opened his mouth again—clearly about to continue his tangent.

“Right. Sorry. Anyway. So, what I’ve found says that each relationship within the overarching relationship is different, which means my relationship with you,” he pointed between Isaac and himself, “is different from my relationship with you,” then between himself and Scott, “and with you,” he finished, gesturing between himself and Jackson. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love you all, but it’s… you’re each different, and I love you for different reasons, right? So I’m not going to interact with you all the same way.”

“And how, exactly, does this result in a ‘No jealousy’ rule?” Jackson asked, voice acidic.

“Because it doesn’t literally mean ‘Don’t get jealous.’ It means that, with the four of us sitting here, we have potentially six unique relationships to pursue, nurture, and maintain. Each of them that we do decide to be a part of is going to take time and energy, which means things like dates, sex, whatever. So, by agreeing to this rule, we all agree that we’re allowed to _have_ those relationships if we want them without having to be afraid that someone else is going to get pissed off. But it also means that we all agree to not let any of those relationships fall to the wayside unless it’s mutually agreed-upon, because that’s just _asking_ for jealousy, y’know?”

Stiles took a deep breath, eyes tracking between each of them before he continued speaking, seemingly looking for their understanding. “Basically, Rule One is that we do everything in our power to avoid causing drama because someone doesn’t feel like they’re getting enough attention or like they’re left out while also accepting the fact that sometimes, say, I’ll want to spend time with you, Isaac, and not with you, Scott, but that it will not— _can_ not—always be like that and that it’s not personal.”

Scott let the words sink in, and felt himself frowning.

“But what if we end up feeling jealous anyway? I mean, I can’t promise that I won’t get upset if I want to spend time with you and you’re, like in your example, off with Isaac or something.”

Stiles’ eyes almost seemed to twinkle.

“Ah, and that, Scotty m’ boy, is why I made Rule Two.” The human tapped his finger by the three words beneath Rule One. Scott saw Isaac crane his neck and tilt his head to properly read the words.

“’No locked doors?’ Could you be a little more oblique, Stiles?”

The brunet grinned, “Fine. It’s pretty much my fancy way of saying we’ve got to communicate. When we’re kids, if we don’t want to talk to our parents or we want to hide from them, we run into our rooms and lock the door, right? Well, that doesn’t solve anything, so we’re not going to do that. If someone has a problem—like if, say, Rule One is broken and someone gets jealous—then we sit down and we _talk about it_. We’re not going to run from our problems or shove them under the rug, because that’ll just breed resentment. We’re going to communicate, damn it, if it’s the last thing we do, because I refuse to have this relationship fall apart just because we don’t want to step on each other’s toes. We’re going to be better than that. We _are_ better than that. So yeah. No locked doors. Both figuratively and literally, I figure, since one of us locking themselves in a room is pretty much the same as refusing to talk about something.”

“What if I can’t stand the sight of your ugly mugs and I’ll rip your faces off if I have to sit down and talk at them unless I can sit and look at something else—on my _own_ —for a few minutes?” Jackson asked, arching an eyebrow. “What if I want to lock the door and just _be alone_ so I don’t kill you all?”

Stiles blinked at the blond for a moment before tilting his head in Jackson’s direction.

“Point. So, no literal locking of doors unless not doing so will only make things worse for everyone? Is that acceptable? I’m still refusing to budge on the ‘talk about our shit’ part, though.”

When he got nods from all around, Stiles poked at the third line of text.

“I think this last one goes without saying, but that’s why I left it for last. ‘No secrets.’ I figure we all know by now that secrets destroy relationships?” He sent a pointed look Scott’s way, and Scott had to duck his head as he felt his face heating.

“So yeah,” Stiles continued. “None of that. I mean it, guys. I want this to work. I really do. I think we have a good shot at this, but we have to approach this like we’re at least _pretending_ to act like adults, alright? Are we in agreement?”

“Yes,” Isaac whispered from beside Scott.

Jackson shrugged across the table. “Sure, yeah. Sounds easy enough.”

Scott simply nodded, knowing his friend would be able to read the earnest expression he’d pulled onto his face.

“Okay. Good,” Stiles muttered, gathering the papers back into a stack to place back in his bag. When that was done, he looked around at each of them—eyes resting on them individually for a moment of perfect, heavy meaning—before he clapped his hands together with a smile.

“Let’s make this work, then, guys.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

There were only a few times in his life that Jackson had truly, completely, hated himself.

The first time was the night his parents told him they weren’t, in fact, his parents. He’d berated himself for _hours_ , wondering why he hadn’t noticed, how could he had been so stupid, who would want a kid so stupid that he couldn’t even figure out that he didn’t _belong_? He’d screamed his self-loathing into a pillow, tears and snot and spit smearing on the pillow case and he didn’t even care that he was getting them all over his face because how could he have been so _blind_? And it was then, in that perfect alignment of his anger and despair and confusion and _pain_ , that Jackson had first experienced hatred. Hatred towards his parents for lying to him for so long, for making him think that the loved him unconditionally because how _could_ they if they’d kept this from him for so long? Hatred towards his real parents for dying, for leaving him in the arms of veritable strangers. Hatred towards himself, for not being good enough for his old parents to keep him (he would only find out that they’d _died_ several days later, which would bring on a fresh wave of agony), for not being good enough for his _fake_ parents to truly love him; for not seeing what was _right in front of him_. And, sure, he’d worked through a lot of that hatred. Eventually. It’d taken becoming a monster that even other monsters considered an abomination, dying, coming back to life, and then _three_ mates for him to even _begin_ to deal with any of it, but he was trying.

The second time had been in seventh grade, when he’d pushed and pushed and _pushed_ at Danny, asking why the other boy hadn’t had a girlfriend yet—or why Danny just refused to talk to him about girls at all—only to have Danny finally break and scream out “Because I don’t like girls!” with tears in his eyes. In the middle of a crowded hallway. With the eyes of half their grade on them. Danny had gone as pale as a sheet—an impressive feat considering the boy’s tanned complexion—when everyone, everything else had just _stopped_ and _stared_ , and before JAckson could stop him he’d dashed to the nearest exit and flung himself through it, not even bothering to collect his books from his locker. But that hadn’t been the moment Jackson hated himself. No, that was immediately after, when a boy a grade above them had said something derogatory—something that Jackson would never, _ever_ tell his best friend—and Jackson had said _nothing_. He’d done _nothing_. He’d seen the moment he could’ve eased the torture Danny would go through until tenth grade, until they both made the lacrosse team and Jackson made captain—he had practically seen it stretched out before him, a litany of hatred and near-violence—and he’d just stood there, too dumbstruck to cut off the gangrenous limb before it had a chance to spread. He’d never really forgiven himself for that, either, and no matter how supportive he’d been since then, he’d never been able to shake the feeling that those three years somehow stained him in a way he could never be rid of.

The third had been the first night he woke up from a kanima nightmare—a memory, in particular the memory of attacking and killing so many innocents at the sheriff’s department.

He’d remembered the looks of incredulity and incomprehension on their faces that had slowly morphed to a more primal terror as their minds ceased trying to make sense of _what_ _he was_ and were made abundantly aware of _what he could do_ when he opened the throat of the first deputy to the bone with a single, careless swipe. The man had gone for his gun—for all the good it would’ve done him, though he’d never lived to find out. He’d remembered the way the spark of _life_ in the man’s eyes had simply been snuffed out after a few horrible seconds during which the deputy—Williamson, Jackson had been able to see on his badge: Erik Williamson—had groped at his own throat, as if he could somehow prevent himself from choking on his own fluids as they both poured into his gaping windpipe and out onto the floor. The resulting stream of murders and the names and faces associated with them—Clarisse Benning had been gutted, entrails spilling into her disbelieving fingers as she shrieked in agony; Jefferson Fields’ neck had been snapped by Jackson’s tail, the man’s shout of defiance when he’d managed to squeeze off several shots in Jackson’s direction cut short by the horrifying _crack_ that rent the air; Sally Fultz had had her heart simply rent from her chest, and fell without a sound— had been branded into his memory and etched into the back of his eyelids.

He’d tried the entire time to wake up, to make it—to make _himself_ —just _stop_ , to tell himself it was only a dream, that it wasn’t happening, that he had to be imagining these horrible things because he’d _never done them_. Then he’d awoken screaming, Stiles wrapped around him as his stomach heaved and he didn’t even manage to make it to the edge of the bed; he’d simply convulsed in the middle of the bed, body trying to purge itself of everything he’d just witnessed. He’d still been able to feel the phantom blood between his fingers, and that realization brought an even stronger wave of nausea ripping through him that was so intense it actually made him _stop_ throwing up and instead caused every muscle in his body to lock up all at once as a fresh scream buried itself in his throat. His claws had extended as his hands balled themselves into fists, cutting through his sheets and the mattress beneath with equal ease.

When he’d finally collapsed, his fatigued muscles uncramping and the taste of bile strong in his throat, Stiles had been there to pull him away from the mess he’d made, to comfort him and soothe his tears. It hadn’t been until Jackson’s mouth had started to form the shapes of words without his consent, gurgling, broken sounds issuing forth that were apparently comprehensible enough to understand, that Jackson had realized that he was telling the brunet what he’d seen. That had been when Stiles’ face flashed into a something cold and understanding before melting into sympathy.

“Jackson, that wasn’t a dream,” he’d told the blond in his arms. “That was a memory. From when you were the Kanima.” When Jackson had started to writhe in his arms, Stiles had continued, “But it wasn’t you, okay? It was Matt. It was all Matt, _not_ you, alright? He _used_ you, Jackson; it _wasn’t you_.”

The words, however, had fallen on deaf ears. All Jackson could see was the way Stiles had looked at him for the scantest of seconds—the rage and hate that were so hot that they burned oh-so cold—because _he_ had caused that. Stiles had probably _known_ those people and Jackson could _still feel the blood under his fingernails_. Jackson had pulled away, rolled off the bed, and stumbled to his feet before locking himself in his bathroom, ignoring the way his boyfriend called after him.

He’d smashed the mirror above the sink—all he could see was the reflection of the kanima staring back at him, just as he’d seen it in the reflections in the terror-wide eyes of the people he’d killed—and curled up in a ball in the shower, holding his head in his hands as he screamed; he’d screamed until his vocal cords would’ve been bloody tatters if not for his werewolf healing.

And in that moment, Jackson had hated himself so thoroughly that he’d been sure the hate would consume him; that it would rip its way out of his body and leave a shattered carcass behind. He’d hated himself for hurting—for _murdering_ —those people, for hurting his boyfriend and one of the few people that’d actually _mattered_ to him, but mostly he’d hated himself for letting it happen. He should’ve been stronger, should’ve known that asking for the Bite would only lead to problems. He should’ve _known_. Instead, because he’d been too-stupid-too-blind-too- _weak_ , people had died. He’d entertained the thought of picking up one of the glass shards from the floor and opening his own throat with it before he flung it away, telling himself that it would only make him _weaker_ , to run from this so thoroughly and leave behind the few people who cared about him; as quickly as the thought appeared, it was gone, and he’d hated himself all the more for even _considering_ it in the first place.

The fourth time is this very instant, sitting in the middle of the suddenly too-silent kitchen at the suddenly too-empty table with Scott and Isaac’s last words to him ringing in his ears.

And the worst part—the absolutely _most_ fucked-up part—is that he feels worse about this than he had about killing all those people. Because, this time, he doesn’t have the crutch of _it wasn’t me it was someone else it wasn’t **me**_ to lean on. This time, everything about this situation is absolutely, completely, justifiably his fault.

He hadn’t been _thinking_ when he’d spoken, because he’d been swimming in his own righteous indignation and presumption, and he’d been so god damned _tired_.  But he’d been _pissed_. His day had already started late because someone—Jake, probably—had left out the reagents he needed for his experiments overnight _again_ , so he’d had to portion out new tubes of them for himself and everyone else. Because, _of course_ , whoever it was hadn’t just left out the current stock tube, but the entire god damn box of stock tubes. The box that was supposed to never leave the freezer. He’d left an angry note on the whiteboard, but, if Dr. Kallen had seen it, she hadn’t said anything. And then, when Jake had come in, Jackson _knew_ the idiot had read the board—he’d heard the younger man’s shoes stop beside it and his heart rate speed up after a moment, presumably after he’d read the angry scrawl, which confirmed what Jackson had already guessed—but the undergrad hadn’t said anything to Jackson nor had he acknowledged his mistake at all. Not. A. Fucking. Word.

 _Then_ , Jake had proceeded to dick around in the lab until it was almost time to go, accomplishing _fuck-all_ , and then _suddenly_ remembering that he’d needed to set up an experiment in the hood. The hood Jackson had been planning to use at the end of his day as part of his duty to maintain the dozens of cell cultures they had growing. The only functioning hood the lab currently owned, since the second one was away getting repaired after _someone_ —here read, Jake—had messed with a few dials and burned out the fan motor. Of course, he’d never been able to prove that particular blunder, as Jake was one of four students—two grads, two undergrads—currently in the lab with Jackson, and there was no way to be _certain_ which of them had ‘bumped’ the sensitive equipment. So Jackson had been back in his office, typing up his results from the day, planning further experiments, answering emails, and looking up recent papers in his field, when he’d gotten yet another _ping_ informing him of a new email. The subject line—Teaching Assignment for Fall Semester—had been innocuous enough.

Then he’d read it.

And his day had spiraled out of control from there.

Jake had fucked up, had almost contaminated everything before finishing his set-up (he’d been saved only because Holly, another of the undergrads, had been there to hold his fucking hand and help him not burn everything to the ground), leaving Jackson to wipe down the entire god damned hood to ensure the lab’s cell cultures—the things that were the _lifeblood_ of the lab—didn’t get ruined, which would’ve, in turn, ruined all their work for the next six months. At that point, everyone else had already left, and Jackson had become acutely aware of what time it was. He’d called Isaac, wrapped up his work in the office as quickly as he could, and done what was necessary to get the lab back into shape before he left.

The drive home had been easy enough, as most traffic was gone this time of year, but it’d simply given Jackson time to stew in his own juices, growing progressively more agitated up until he’d opened the front door and set his bag down. Then, he’d suddenly snapped back to the present when the TV played back a line from his favorite episode of Supernatural, and he’d become acutely aware of several facts at once. Firstly, Isaac and Scott were laying on the couch, tangled together in such a way that practically invited Jackson to join them. Secondly, they were both gazing expectantly at him, further reinforcing that they actually wanted him to accept said invitation. Thirdly, it hadn’t been his imagination: Supernatural was indeed playing on the TV, and it _was_ his favorite episode (though, if asked, he’d have told anyone that it was his favorite because it was an example of the brothers _not_ winning, of them going up against something toostrong for even their combined hunting prowess). Finally, it had smelled absolutely _delicious_ in the apartment.  All those factors combined to snap him out of his funk—at least enough that he could _smile_ and enjoy himself—and he’d relished in the time spent cuddled with his mates.

Dinner had been, in a word, amazing, and Jackson had again allowed himself to forget about everything that’d happened earlier.

And then Isaac had asked about what he’d been talking about earlier when he mentioned “other stuff.” And Jackson had felt it all—the anger, the frustration; the knowledge that there wasn’t really much of anything he could _do_ about it except grin and bear it—come rushing back to the surface. And he had exploded. He had exploded and unintentionally done the unforgivable.

He had hurt one of his mates.

He had hurt Scott.

He had hurt Scott so deeply that his mate had uttered the two words in series Jackson had never heard the man use before, except when they were preceded by “I’m going to” or “I want to.”

He had hurt Scott so deeply that it infuriated even _Isaac_.

He had hurt Scott so deeply that the brunet had fled into their shared bedroom and _locked the door_.

And now Jackson sits at the table, the silence of the kitchen suffocating him like a pillow placed against his face. The sounds of the two bedroom doors slamming are still ringing in his ears, and the click of the lock as it’d slid into place is echoing in the back of his mind. If he listens hard enough, Jackson can hear the sounds of Isaac and Stiles’ elevated, worried—angry, but still worried—heartbeats from the spare bedroom. Worse, he doesn’t have to focus very hard at all to catch the gut-wrenching sound of sobs coming from behind the main bedroom door. His hands shake as the sounds invade the silence, and he wants so badly to curl up in the living room, as far away from the bedroom doors as he can get, with his hands over his ears to try and block out everything else. However, some part of him—the part, he supposes, that has allowed him to last this long—whispers in the back of his mind how that would be the absolute worst possible thing he could do right now.

But he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s hurt his mates—some more than others, but he _has_ hurt them all. While he can admit to himself that, all the other times in the past that he’s felt nothing but contempt for his own being, it was caused by events outside of his control, this time…

 _This_ time, it is entirely his fault.

Revulsion crawls up his throat at the thought, and he has to suppress a full-body shiver while swallowing the taste of bile at the back of his mouth.

He has to fix this. He knows that. He just has no idea _how_. A wave of helplessness threatens to overwhelm him for a moment, but he fights that back, too. Everyone has always assumed that he’s _Jackson-fucking-Whittemore_ , the perfect son, boyfriend, and lover—that he’s calm, cool, and collected and always knows what to do—so much to the point that he sometimes even finds himself believing it, too. In truth, most days he just feels like a scared child and finds himself wondering how the _hell_ this became his life. Not that he’s complaining: he _loves_ his life, his mates, what he’s made of himself so far. It’s just that, sometimes, it would’ve been nice if someone hadn’t _assumed_ that he knew everything and couldn’t possibly screw up and _told_ him how he’s supposed to fix things when he does exactly that.

Slowly, he pushes his chair back from the table and settles his weight on his feet. He draws in a deep breath, breathing in the sour tang that sadness leaves in the air—his own or his mates’, he can’t be sure, though he’s been told that it’s not possible to smell your own emotions—and exhales his own frustration, worry, and anger. He can do this, he tells himself. He _has_ to do this.

With subdued steps, he moves towards the bedroom door, trying to keep the pace of his footfalls even, measured, and seemingly calm. When he reaches the white-painted wood, he doesn’t try the knob—knows it’s pointless—and instead lifts a hand to knock, then realizes that in a house of werewolves such a gesture is practically pointless. However, it’s the polite thing to do, another part of his mind reminds him, and right now he can’t afford to assume anything. He raps against the door with his most distal knuckles, hoping that the sound alone will be gentle and possibly convey a measure of his own sorrow. The heartbeat inside skips a beat, and Jackson hears Scott suck a quick, surprised breath in through a snot-clogged nose. Apparently, he hadn’t heard Jackson’s approach.

At least he’d done that much right. The implication, though, of Jackson having hurt Scott badly enough that the brunet hadn’t even been aware of someone moving through the apartment makes Jackson’s raised hand shake badly enough that he has to put it back at his side and grip his leg forcefully.

“Scott?” he calls through the door. His voice sounds wrong, too gravelly and wavering unsteadily. He clears his throat when he doesn’t hear a response and tries again, trying to inject an apologetic tone into the name. “Scott?”

Still no response. Jackson rests the palm of his right hand against the door, as if he can somehow convey his sincerity through the contact with the room. The contact with the wood does little to ease the tremors that race each other through his body.

“Scott, please.”

The heartbeat behind the door skips again, but no voice or movement he can hear accompanies the blip except Scott’s quiet, snuffling tears. Jackson leans forward until his side and hip are resting against the door, tilting his head until his skull _thunks_ gently against the wood. He’s so _tired_.

“Please, Scott, I’m sorry.”

Still nothing.

“Scott, can you hear me?”

Silence.

“Scott?”

“Go away.”

The raw, unfiltered emotion _hurt_ the words nearly breaks Jackson’s heart. He slides down the door, the fabric of his clothes rasping softly, until he’s sitting with his side still leaning against the door. The voice had come from just on the other side of the barrier, which means Scott’s probably moved from the bed to stand by the door—though when he did it, Jackson has no idea; he certainly didn’t hear it.

“Not until I fix this.”

More silence.

“Scott, look, I’m… I’m sorry. I fucked up, okay? I hurt you, and I just… I don’t want that, okay? I want to make it up to you.”

After another moment of nothing from the other side, Jackson adds, “I’m sorry, Scott. Even if you don’t forgive me, can you at least open the door?”

There’s the sound of a gentle thud from the other side, around the height of Jackson’s head, and Scott’s voice comes through more clearly than before—apparently he’d taken to leaning against the door as well. He can’t hear Scott crying anymore, but that doesn’t mean the brunet’s not doing so silently.

“Not good enough.”

“Scott, please, I…” Jackson feels his voice falter, and the hatred he feels for himself—simmering and ugly—boils up in his guts and makes his voice waver against his will with something that sounds a lot like desperation to his own ears. “Look, I don’t know how to fix this, okay? I don’t know what I can do to make this better. I just, I didn’t think, alright?”

There’s a derisive snort from the other side, which Jackson counts as progress, so he continues.

“I fucked up, I know that. I own up to that. I don’t know what else I can do to make this up to you, though. Please, just,” there’s the falter again, “just tell me what to do? Please? I don’t know what to do.”

Scott takes a deep breath, the sound labored, before whispering, “You said I was a worthless idiot.”

Jackson wants to protest—to say that, no, that wasn’t _exactly_ what he’d said, not in so many words, and he’d never, _would_ never, say that about specifically Scott—but clamps his lips over the sound, instead nodding. The action feels important somehow, even though Scott can’t see it.

“I know,” he whispers back, voice cracking on the second word.

“You said I wasn’t worth your time.”

Something lodges in Jackson’s throat. “I know,” he croaks out, trying and failing to swallow the obstruction.

“You,” there’s a rustling sound followed by a hitch in Scott’s breathing, and Jackson realizes with a feeling of horror that his mate is crying again—has probably been doing so this whole time but had managed to at least keep the sounds muffled, “you said I wasn’t worth _anything_ , Jacks.”

“No, Scott,” Jackson tries to plead, “never. I could never think that about you.”

“But that’s what you _said_.”

“I was talking about the other people, Scott, I never meant—”

“Yes you did!”

The words are shouted through the door, and Jackson flinches away at the unexpected tone, wanting nothing more than to curl in on himself; Scott _never_ raises his voice. _Ever_.

“Scott, I—” he presses himself back against the door, forehead to the smooth wood as he feels himself on the verge of _begging_ , only to be cut off.

“You meant every word, Jackson.” Scott’s voice is low again, but deathly so. “You didn’t stutter, your heart rate didn’t change. You meant it. You might not’ve known you were talking about me at the time, but you were. And you meant it.”

Jackson grinds his teeth in helpless frustration. He doesn’t know what he can _say_ , what he can _do_ , to make this better. He’s screwed up. He knows that. He’s hurt Scott almost beyond words. He _knows_ that.

He doesn’t know what to _do_.

So he whispers the first words that come to his mind.

“I was wrong.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the other side, and the door creaks back as Scott’s body moves back from it with a soft scraping sound that tells Jackson his mate just jumped back. Encouraged by the reaction, he continues.

“I was wrong, Scott. I shouldn’t have said what I did. You’re right: I meant it, but I,” he swallows, both the lump and his pride because, the more he repeats the words, the truer they ring his ears, “I was _wrong_. I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

Jackson nearly jumps out of his skin when the lock clicks back out of place, the sounds startling him so much that he falls backwards. The door creaks open, and he sees Scott’s face for perhaps a second—red-rimmed eyes, tear tracks down his cheeks that had clearly been wiped away only to be refilled afresh, and a swollen nose are the only details he has the time to take in—before the brunet turns away and stalks back into the darkness of the room without a word.

From behind him, Jackson hears the sound of the guest bedroom door creaking open. He looks back and sees both Stiles and Isaac peeking out—Isaac must’ve heard the other door open, Jackson thinks to himself.  Isaac’s face is scrunched up, and he still looks pissed off; Jackson knows he’s going to have another round of apologies to make later—which he will, gladly. Stiles, meanwhile, looks miffed, but otherwise he just rolls his eyes at where Jackson’s still sprawled out on the floor.

“Well, go on,” the human urges him. “Go and make up already, preferably before our food gets totally cold. We’ve got your back,” he finishes before cocking his head to the side and adding, “you fucking moron, you. You’re lucky we love you.”

When Isaac nods his agreement—though whether to the statement of support or the declaration of his idiocy, Jackson isn’t sure—Jackson picks himself up off the floor, feeling the weight on his shoulders ease by the tiniest of margins. Turning back towards where Scott had disappeared, he slowly walks into the bedroom, eyes adjusting to the blackness almost instantly. Scott is sitting up on the edge of the queen-sized bed that sits in the middle of the far wall, fiddling with a loose thread in the duvet. Even in the dark, Jackson can still see the rigid set to Scott’s shoulders; the way Scott’s eyes studiously avoid his face; the smears of moisture still drying on Scott’s cheeks.

“I haven’t forgiven you yet,” the brunet whispers ruefully by way of greeting, twirling the thread around and between his index and middle fingers.

“I know,” Jackson says back softly, still moving cautiously as he sits on the edge of the bed, the bed frame creaking gently in protest; it was the same one they’d moved in with eight years ago, so it was probably time to get a new one, Jackson finds himself musing. The thought that it’d been almost nine years since they started this insanity—eight since they’d moved into this apartment together—sends Jackson reeling slightly, and he has to shake his head slightly to knock away the sense of… something (longevity? domesticity? pride?) that wells up in him as the sheer _vastness_ of that time assaults him.

“I’m really sorry, Scott.”

The other beta snorts, still not looking up.

“It’s not that easy, Jackson.”

Jackson tears his gaze down towards the floor, wanting so badly to reach his hand over and envelop his mate’s hand in his own but checking the impulse.

“It’s not even really _what_ you said that hurts so much,” Scott continues. “It’s the fact that you said it when I had this great, huge plan in mind about how I was going to tell you I was in your class. Well, I guess Isaac had a great, huge plan and I just jumped on it, but still. I just… I just wanted to make you happy, Jacks’.”

Hope stirs in Jackson’s  chest at the use of the nickname.

“I know. I know, and I’m sor—”

“No, you _don’t_ know, Jackson,” Scott grits out, tone suddenly tight. Jackson chances a glance at his mate and finds amber eyes staring boring a hole through his skull. “I signed up _for_ _you_. Not just because I need the class, but because I know you get annoyed with teaching sometimes. I’d just figured that I could, y’know, _be there_ for you when you needed it, I suppose: someone you knew in a crowd of strangers. I could’ve signed up for any one of three different sections, but I chose _yours_.”

With every word Scott spoke, Jackson can feel the hope that’d spawned in his chest dimming ever so slightly. However, Scotts next words nearly snuff it out completely.

“I wanted to do something for you, and you threw it back in my face. You didn’t mean to, but you still did.”

“Scott, I—”

The yellow fades from Scott’s eyes, perhaps from the way Jackson’s voice cracks again, and Jackson finds himself unable to look away from those chocolate depths. He doesn’t have to when Scott looks down again.

“If you want to make it up to me, you’ve got a lot of groveling to do.”

Jackson’s eyes widen, and his heart beats a rapid staccato in his chest. Then he catches sight of Scott’s teasing half-grin, and his guts feel like they’ve transformed into air. He leans forward, wrapping his arms around his mate.

“Thank you,” he whispers reverently. “Thank you, I love you, I’m so sorry, so, _so_ , sorry, thank you—”

“You still don’t know what I want,” Scott murmurs into his neck, nosing just above one of the spots Jackson knows _Scott_ knows is incredibly sensitive, apparently purposefully avoiding that particular expanse of skin.

“Anything,” Jackson responds without hesitation, gripping his mate tighter.

“Even if I asked you to just pass me?” the brunet asks him devilishly, grin evident in his voice.

“Yes.”

Scott stiffens slightly in his arms.

“Even though you’d get fired and probably lose your research position?”

“Don’t care,” Jackson murmurs, pulling back and holding Scott’s shoulders to look his mate straight in the eye. “You’re more important than some stupid job. I can always get another one of those. I can’t get another you.”

Scott stares at him dead-on, eye widening almost comically after a moment of searching Jackson’s face in the faint light from the doorway where Jackson hadn’t shut it all the way.

“You really mean it,” he breathes quietly.

“Of course I do,” Jackson retorts, letting a hint of annoyance leak into his words. “When have I ever said something I didn’t mean?”

Scott’s face morphs back into a small smile.

“Even if you’re sometimes wrong?”

“Especially then.”

“Even when you say stupid things that hurt one of us?”

“Even then, although I’m usually _especially_ wrong when that happens.”

Scott moves closer, whispering a soft, “At least you admit it. Ass,” grin still firmly in place, before planting a chaste kiss on Jackson’s lips and pulling back.

“You can come in now, guys,” Scott calls towards the door, and Jackson pulls back and whirls around to see Isaac and Stiles standing in the doorway.

“Are you two done?” Stiles asks acerbically, how own wry smile in evidence. “I’m fucking hungry. Make up, already.”

Isaac places a hand on the brunet’s shoulder, expression serene—though Jackson in no way misses the pointed look flashed his way for a scant few half-seconds—as he says, “What Stiles is trying to say is that he’s glad you two are feeling better. Now, come here.”

He beckons with his free hand, and Jackson and Scott rise as one to join their mates in the doorway. When they’re within reach, Isaac pulls them both into a hug, running his nose through their hair, over their necks, anything he can reach, while Stiles simply holds them tight and gives them both a closed-mouth kiss on the cheek.

The four of them stand there, gripping each other in the werelight, communicating their love in ways that transcend even words.  They kiss, they hold; they feel. Words are whispered, only to be swallowed in the next moment by silence. Gestures are made and aborted halfway through, their meaning already understood. And all the while, they stand together, the four of them against the world, against any problem that might come barreling their way, because that’s what they do.

It’s what they’ve always done.

It’s what they’ll always do.

Stiles’ stomach breaks the moment by growling loudly.

“Are you sure you’re not a werewolf?” Scott asks him, gently nudging his mate with an elbow.

“Pretty sure, pup,” Stiles responds flippantly, rolling his eyes.

“You sure?” Isaac asks, joining in. “Because I’m pretty sure you just growled louder than Jackson can.”

“Hey!” Jackson pouts, feigning offense.

Eventually, they steer themselves back into the kitchen and retake their seats, starting to eat again. They don’t talk about the subtle tension left behind by Jackson’s words just yet. There will be plenty of time for that later, after they eat, fuck, and then collapse into a satisfied, boneless, relaxed heap that will prevent raised voices and elevated tempers. For now, they talk about mundane things—how was Stiles’ day at work? Did Scott have any interesting patients at the hospital today? How’s Kim doing?—and eat their dinner, hope a tangible glimmer on the horizon.

And maybe it’s not perfect. Maybe it’s not ‘normal.’ Maybe it’s not where they saw themselves ten years ago. Maybe it’s never been _easy_. And maybe they never want it to be. After all, life’s journey is best when it’s kept interesting: when it can still surprise you after eight—almost nine—years together. But, even better, is to ensure that the journey is taken in good company. And, Jackson thinks to himself as he looks around the table at his mates, he’s got the best company one could possibly wish for.

This may not be perfect, but it’s perfect enough.

It’s _his_ perfect.

And he couldn’t ask for anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go, each of them one scene each: the epilogue and an extra +1 that can sub in as an alternate epilogue if you prefer. They should be up within a day or two.
> 
> Thank you to those of you who have stuck with me thus far: thank you _so_ much; your support means the world to me. And for those of you who are new at this point: welcome and thank you for reading my work!
> 
> Any and all comments, especially constructive criticism, are welcomed with open arms. And cookies. Cookies may or may not be given.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT IS. THE FINAL CHAPTER. Wait, no I screwed that up... HERE IT IS. THE PENULTIMATE CHAPTER. (which is still technically the final chapter) It's really short, but then again... it's meant to be, haha.
> 
> As before, unbeta'd, so any mistakes or eccentricities are my own. (I looked it over at 3 in the morning please don't hate me too much if something sounds funny)

Isaac nuzzled into the body in his arms, reveling in the scent that made his wolf practically hum in contentment. He spared a thought to wonder why he was even partially awake in the first place, but then simultaneously had his question answered and was jolted awake when the body abruptly shifted in his arms. The sudden cold of the room hit his chest, making him gasp and jerk instinctively as he was pulled forcibly towards consciousness. When he twitched, his elbow was accidentally driven into the ribs of whoever was behind him, and they woke with an undignified squawk, arms flailing and body flopping off the bed with a thud.

“Are you okay, Stiles?” came Jackson’s lightly worried voice from in front of Isaac, and Isaac realized that, based on the fact that Jackson’s voice was in front of him,  the blond must have been his little spoon until trying to sneak out of bed in a move oddly reminiscent of four months ago. The person he elbowed, then, must’ve been Stiles, which meant Scott was probably the warm presence still beside him. When he cracked a single eye open blearily, Isaac could see Jackson was still in the bed, but turned around on his side with his upper body propped up on an elbow so he was facing Isaac and Scott and—presumably—Stiles. Isaac had the fleeting thought that Jackson was far too cute with his hair—and he did like it so much more when those sandy-blond locks were just that tiny bit longer such as they was now—mussed from sleep.

“Jesus!” came Stiles’ voice from the floor, “Not really how I enjoy being woken up, guys. Seriously, I don’t know if we can keep seeing each other if this is gonna be a regular thing.”

Isaac heard Jackson mutter something under his breath about just wanting to go for a run and overreacting boyfriends before he asked, “Really, Stiles? Less than ten hours in and you’re already calling it off?”

“No,” Stiles groaned in protest, propping his arms and head on the bed, “I just don’t know if I can deal with getting tossed around all the time like Sam and Dean; only human, over here.”

Isaac couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled its way out of his throat, the sound oddly muted in his sleepy-drunk ears, but it earned him a snort from Jackson. Behind him, he heard Scott’s soft, whuffing laugh the brunet made whenever he wasn’t completely awake yet still found something funny. Stiles murmured reminiscent of “See, Jackson? They think I’m _funny_.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow and lifted his head up further, presumably looking behind Isaac at Scott. “Dude, you still think he’s funny? After all this time?”

Isaac could feel Scott’s grin against his skin, and knew probably a half-second before the brunet said anything exactly what was coming.

“Always.”

Even knowing it was coming, Isaac snorted on his laughter, hugging Jackson close when the blond simply looked affronted. The bed was shaking in time with Scott’s laughter, and then it dipped with added weight. A moment later, Stiles’ face loomed over the space between the two blonds.

“You did kinda walk into that one, Jacks’,” Stiles chuckled, grin stretching his features wide as he planted a smiling kiss on Jackson’s pout.

“Whatever,” the blond murmured, leaning forward and hiding his face in the crook of Isaac’s neck and muttering darkly about stupid wizard book references. Without even thinking about it, Isaac’s arms wrapped around the shorter beta and pulled them closer together, his hands running soothing lines up and down Jackson’s spine. The gesture made something shift in Stiles’ face—made something flash deep within the depths of his honey-brown eyes—and the brunet’s grin slid away to be neatly replaced with an expression Isaac could’ve only described as quietly contemplative. After another moment propped above them, Stiles slid upwards on the bed until he was stretched out against the headboard, occupying the space above their heads. Isaac wasn’t sure if he was aware of the motion, but as soon as Stiles settled into the pillows, his hands started playing with Isaac’s and—if the contented noises coming from behind the blond were anything to go by—Scott’s hair, twisting the strands lightly between his fingers and running his nails gently over their scalps.

“So,” the human teen started after a few seconds of silence, hands not stopping, “speaking of ‘Always,’ are we still serious about this?”

“Talked about it last night, Stiles,” Scott murmured sleepily, nuzzling into the back of Isaac’s neck just behind where Jackson was nosing at the tendons that ran from his jaw to his clavicle, and, oh— _oh_ —did Scott and Jackson really just kiss _over his neck_? So not fair.

“No, I know that,” Stiles responded; his voice was light, but the way his heartbeat suddenly thudded twice as loudly in Isaac’s ears and the nervous tension Isaac was sure all three of them could smell coming off the human betrayed the tremor that was absent from his words. “But, I mean, do you think we can really, y’know, do _this_? The four of us? I mean, relationships like this, historically, have a horrible track record, and we’re in _high school_ still so what if we get split up or something manages to finally get one of you guys or _me_ or—”

“Stiles,” came Scott’s voice, sleepy lilt gone as he cut the other brunet off, “if any of that happens, we’ll deal with it, but for now…”

He trailed off, wrapping an arm around Isaac until the blond felt Scott’s hands join his own on Jackson’s back. Jackson nosed at the angle of Isaac’s jaw, reaching an arm up to pull Stiles headfirst into their cuddle puddle with an undignified squeak.

“For now,” Scott finished, the ever-present optimism in his voice chasing away the shards of ice that had sprung to life in Isaac’s belly at Stiles’ earlier words, “I believe in trying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! Literally, this chapter's summary (and the summary on the first chapter) was one of the first things I thought of when I first conceptualized this story. We began in the prologue with the beginning of the end, and we end in the epilogue with the end of the beginning, as it were. BASICALLY, if I've written this correctly, then, well... This last scene should be highly significant. *crosses fingers* I hope I haven't failed, because at this point there's absolutely nothing I can do to fix it if I have...
> 
> A huge huge huge HUUUGE shout-out to my constant supporters: GStarRoss, Nirvana, astrospace, and Notsalony. You guys have been with me the whole way and I appreciate it so so _so_ much you've no idea. To all those other readers who have commented: thank you _so_ much for your feedback. It's been invaluable, and I've loved talking with each and everyone one of you. And to those of you who have read/kudosed but not commented: Thank you for taking the time to read my work! It's nice to know there are people out there who are enjoying the little plot bunnies in my head aside from me ^_^
> 
> For those of you who haven't seen me jabbering on about this in the comments yet, I'm going to be doing a followup to this story wherein I pretty much write the random plot bunnies that come to me in this 'verse. It will be titled "...And the Soul Dances." and will be of indeterminant length. If there's anything you guys want to see in that story, scenes that haven't been in this story but have been mentioned (there were a number of them, though, honestly, I only intended to write about half of them... and actually ended up writing about a quarter of them, haha), scenes that take place AFTER the timeframe of this story (because, yes, the boys are still all together after the events described herein, and, no, THRI's particular scope doesn't have room for events in the future), or just _whatever_ , feel free to drop them in the comments here, the comments on that story once I get it going, or [my askbox on tumblr](http://ohhaiguise.tumblr.com/ask). I've got a fair number of prompts to get me started, but I'm always looking for more. *waggles eyebrows suggestively* *whispers* feed me prompts...
> 
> Anyway, I'm gonna cut this off here before my notes get longer than my story. Thank you again so much for reading, you guys. You're the best. Seriously.


	8. +1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate epilogue

Isaac stopped abruptly when he heard the voice drifting out of the bathroom, frozen in the short hallway between their bedroom and the living room. Though the thin wood of the door did little in terms of sound insulation, the water from the shower beat against the tiles in a senseless pitter-patter that oppressively dulled any noises that tried to escape from the small room. Buried beneath all that white noise, so soft Isaac almost missed it, came the distinct tone of someone talking to themselves in the shower.

No, _not talking_ , he realized with a start: _singing_. The voice was pure and clear, the tone strong despite its low volume, and Isaac found himself entranced by the melodic path it took.

It was beautiful.

He moved closer to the door, trying to figure out which of his mates it was—he’d never heard _any_ of them sing before, and so had yet to pick out which it was based on vocal patterns alone. The blond tried to keep his steps light: unless it was Stiles in the shower, then it was entirely possible that the sounds of him walking would be enough to alert his mate that he was listening in on the impromptu concert.

Being sure to dodge the spot on the floor that creaked just outside the door, Isaac lightly pressed his ear to the wood, the proximity allowing him to more easily pick out words to a song he didn’t know. The words were sung high and light before abruptly shifting in pitch and tone until they were low and dark, and then back again.

“He’s singing a duet with himself,” came the whisper behind him, and Isaac nearly banged his head against the door when he jumped in surprise. Looking to where the voice had come from, he saw Stiles grinning lightly at him, something distant—something that looked both pleased and so _fond_ it made Isaac’s chest clench—in the expression, as if Stiles were casting his memory back to a time long-since forgotten.

“He?” Isaac whispered at precisely the same volume. Stiles tilted his head slightly to the side, a flash of confusion sliding between his honey-brown eyes across his brows.

“Jackson,” the brunet answered. “You didn’t know that he sang?”

Isaac shook his head. “I’ve never heard him before, no.”

Sudden realization crossed his mate’s features.

“Ah.”

They sat in silence for a few moments more, Jackson’s voice simmering in a medium range, and now Isaac could hear it—could distinctly tell it was the other blond—almost as if Jackson were speaking and talking at the same time. Isaac cocked his head to the side in confusion as some of the words registered, Jackson’s voice soaring into a falsetto as Isaac asked, “Did he really just say ‘ignite my circuits’?”

Stiles let out the faintest of snorts, gaze shifting to somewhere to the left of Isaac’s navel.

“Of course he _would_ be singing that song. Don’t ever let Jackson tell you that he’s not a giant softie on the inside. Or an overachiever; a duet by himself,” the brunet trailed off, shaking his head. His eyes sparkled for a moment before sobering.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we haven’t heard him singing before,” Stiles said softly, the words almost phrased like a question.His eyes were locked onto Isaac and full of meaning that the blond couldn’t interpret. He nodded while shrugging, silently hoping he’d successfully indicated that, yes, he was curious, and no, he didn’t know the story as to why it was. Stiles’ gaze tracked back downward as he started to explain, brows creasing together.

“I heard him doing it, _once_ , when we first started dating, near the end of the summer after sophomore year. Back right after everything had been so insane with the kanima and everything else and we were all just trying to hide away from it and be _normal_ for once, y’know?

“Anyway, I heard him singing in his room to himself—I think he was doing summer homework or something—but I remember stopping and thinking to myself that I’d never heard anything quite so beautiful as him just… just singing to himself in his bedroom, not trying to put on a show for anyone else, just… just singing. His mom heard, too, and—you should’ve seen her face, she was this close to crying I swear. Anyway, she explained to me that Jackson used to sing a long time ago in some kids’ choir; I don’t remember the name or anything, just that she said it made him really happy. Then they told him he was adopted and, just like that, he stopped going—stopped singing altogether. It was just… she said it was another of those things they lost from him, I guess. Except he apparently never _really_ stopped, he just never sang in the house. I opened the door to confront him about it, and as soon as he saw me and his mom in the hall he just… stopped.”

“So,” Isaac whispered, “what does that mean?”

“It means that he’s comfortable enough with us here that he’s willing to, I dunno, drop his walls. He’s never really said it, but I get the impression that he gets really self-conscious about other people hearing him because it’s from a time in his life when he was blissfully unaware. I guess it just lets him feel that again.”

Isaac couldn’t help himself.

“Feel what?”

Stiles’ eyes met his own again, forehead smoothing.

“Home. Singing reminds him of a time when he felt like he had a home with parents who he knew loved him no matter what and who he trusted the way a child is _supposed_ to trust their parents.

“It means he feels like he’s home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jackson is singing is "Honeybee" by Steam Powered Giraffe.
> 
> And that's all he wrote. Literally. Thanks so much for reading, everyone. I hope you've had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. And keep those prompts in mind!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What's For Breakfast?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1443577) by [Rattlesnake_Smile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rattlesnake_Smile/pseuds/Rattlesnake_Smile)




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